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THE  EARLY    POEMS 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIEP 

X 


WITH 

BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH 

BY 

N.   H.   DOLE 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS    Y.    CROWELL    &    CO. 
PUBLISHERS 


Gift 


EDUCATION 

.t)  .LINQLUST 


COPYRIGHT,  1893, 
BY  T.  Y.  CROW  ELL  &  CO, 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH vii 

THE  HKIDAI.  OK  I'KNNACOOK i 

I.     The  Mcrriniiick 7 

II.     'I'lu-  Rishalni 9 

III.  The  1  laughter 14 

IV.  Tin-  Wedding 17 

\'.     The  New  Home 21 

VI.     At  Pennacook 24 

VII.     The  Departure 27 

VIII.     Song  of  Indian  Women 29 

LEGENDARY: 

The  Merrimack 31 

The  Norsemen 35 

Cassandra  Southwiek 39 

Funeral  Tree  of  the  Sokokis 50 

St.  John 55 

Pentucket 61 

The  Familist's  Hymn 64 

The  Fountain 68 

The  Exiles 73 

The  New  Wife  and  the  Old 83 

VOICES  OF  FREEDOM  : 

^/The  Slave  Ships 89 

Stanzas,  Our  Countrymen  in  Chains 95 

iii 


575780 


iv  CONTENTS. 

VOICES  OF  FREEDOM  —  continued.  PAGE 

^-  The  Yankee  Girl 99 

To  W.  L.  G I0i 

^JBong  of  the  Free I03 

The  Hunters  of  Men Ic>5 

Clerical  Oppressors , 107 

-^^The  Christian  Slave no 

Stanzas  for  the  Times 113 

Lines  written  on  reading  Gov.  Ritner's  Message,  1836  116 
Lines  written  on  reading  the  Famous  "  Pastoral  Let 
ter  "  119 

Lines   written   for   the    Meeting  of  the  Anti-Slavery 

Society  at  Chatham  Street  Chapel,  New  York,  1834  124 
Lines  written  for  the  Celebration  of  the  Third  Anni 
versary  of  British  Emancipation,  1837 126 

Lines  written  for  the  Anniversary  Celebration  of  the 

First  of  August,  at  Milton,  1846 127 

The   Farewell   of   a   Virginia   Slave   Mother  to   her 

Daughter,  sold  into  Southern  Bondage 130 

Address  written  for  the  Opening  of  "  PENNSYLVANIA 

HALL  " 132 

The  Moral  Warfare 138 

The  Response 139 

The  World's  Convention  of  the  Friends  of  Emancipa 
tion,  held  in  London  in  1840 143 

New  Hampshire,  1845 I5I 

The  New  Year:  addressed  to  the  Patrons  of  the  Penn 
sylvania  Freeman 152 

Massachusetts  to  Virginia 158 

The  Relic 165 

Stanzas  for  the  Times  —  1844 168 

The  Branded  Hand 172 

Texas 176 

To  Faneuil  Hall 180 

To  Massachusetts 182 

The  Pine  Tree 184 

Lines  suggested  by  a  Visit  to  the  City  of  Washington 
in  the  iath  Month  of  1845 iC6 


CONTENTS.  v 

VOICES  OK  FREEDOM — continued.  PACE 

Lines  from  a  Letter  to  a  Young  Clerical  Friend 192 

Yorktown 193 

Ego,  written  in  the  Book  of  a  Friend 196 

MISCELLANEOUS: 

The  Frost  Spirit 203 

The  Vaudois  Teacher 204 

— ^Phe  Call  of  the  Christian 207 

->My  Soul  and  1 209 

*       To  a  Friend  on  her  Return  from  Europe 217 

To  the  Reformers  of  England 220 

•»The  Quaker  of  the  Olden  Time 222 

Reformer 224 

The  Prisoner  for  Debt 226 

Lines  written  on  reading  Several  Pamphlets  published 

by  Clergymen  against  the  Abolition  of  the  Gallows  231 

The  Human  Sacrifice 235 

Randolph  of  Roanoke 242 

Democracy 246 

To  Ronge 249 

Chalkley  Hall 251 

To  John  Pierpont 254 

The  Cypress  Tree  of  Ceylon 255 

~~>.A  Dream  of  Summer 258 

To with  a  copy  of  "  Woolman's  Journal " 259 

Leggett's  Monument 265 

^The  Angels  of  Buena  Vista 266 

Forgiveness 271 

Barclay  of  Ury 271 

What  the  Voice  said 276 

To  Delaware 279 

Worship 280 

The  Album 283 

The  Demon  of  the  Study 284 

The  Pumpkin 288 

Extract  from  a  "  New  England  Legend  " 290 

I  Limpton  Beach 293 


vi  CONTENTS. 

MISCELLANEOUS  —  continued.  PAGE 

Lines  written  on  hearing  of  the  Death  of  Silas  Wright  296 
Lines    accompanying   Manuscripts    presented    to   a 

Friend 297 

The  Reward 300 

Raphael 301 

The  Knight  of  St.  John 305 

Autumn  Thoughts 308 

SONGS  OF  LABOR  : 

Dedication 309 

The  Ship-builders 311 

The  Shoemakers 314 

The  Drovers 317 

The  Fishermen 321 

The  Huskers 324 

The  Corn  Song 328 

The  Lumbermen 330 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

CIRCUMSTANCES  determine  the  poet ;  inheritance 
determines  who  the  poet  shall  be.  It  somehow 
seems  to  be  a  marvellous  thing  that  a  thrifty,  plain 
Quaker  stock  should  come  to  such  a  flowering  as  was 
seen  in  John  Greenleaf  Whittier.  That  iridescent 
colors  should  play  over  the  Quaker  drab !  That  from 
the  insignificant  chrysalis  should  emerge  the  brilliant 
butterfly!  From  Keltic  origin  one  might  expect  any 
surprises.  Boyle  O'Reilly,  who  had  also  something 
of  the  prophetic  spirit,  who  also  threw  himself  gener 
ously  into  conflict  with  powers  that  did  their  best  to 
crush  him  and  make  a  martyr  of  him,  is  explained  by 
the  fact  that  he  was  Keltic.  But  one  scarcely  ex 
pects  a  singer  from  the  ranks  of  sober  Friends. 
That  is  an  anomaly ;  and  to  explain  the  phenomenon 
one  must  look  into  Whittier's  ancestry. 

Four  steps  bring  us  back  to  the  days  of  the  Puri 
tans.  Whittier's  father,  John,  born  in  1760,  was  the 
tenth  child  of  Joseph,  born  in  1716,  the  ninth  and 
youngest  son  of  Joseph,  born  in  1669,  who  was  in 
turn  the  tenth  and  youngest  child  of  Thomas,  who 


viii  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

was  born  in  Southampton,  England,  in  1620,  and 
sailed  for  America  in  the  good  ship  "  Confidence " 
a  little  more  than  two  and  a  half  centuries  ago. 
Thomas  Whittier  was  no  common  man.  He  settled 
on  the  Merrimack  River,  first  in  Salisbury,  then  in 
old  Newbury,  then  in  Haverhill,  where  he  built  the 
house  in  which  his  famous  descendant  was  born. 
He  is  said  to  have  brought  the  first  hive  of  bees  to 
Haverhill.  In  those  days  Indians  frequently  scalped 
and  murdered  defenceless  families  of  white  settlers  ; 
but  Thomas  Whittier  made  them  his  friends  and 
disdained  to  protect  his  house  with  flint-lock  or 
stockade. 

Thomas  Whittier's  son,  Joseph,  married  the  daugh 
ter  of  the  Quaker,  Joseph  Peasley,  and  thus  the  strain 
which  in  those  days  was  regarded  as  a  disgrace,  but 
which  in  time  became  a  mark  of  distinction,  was 
grafted  upon  the  Whittier  stock.  The  poet's  grand 
father  married  Sarah  Greenleaf,  a  descendant  of  a 
French  exile,  whose  name,  instead  of  being  perverted 
like  the  Lummydews  (L'Hommedieux)  and  the  De- 
sizzles  (Des  Isles),  was  simply  translated  into  Eng 
lish.  What  part  this  Gallic  blood  played  in  Whit- 
tier's  mental  make-up,  it  would  be  no  less  difficult 
than  interesting  to  determine. 

Whittier's  mother,  Abagail  Hussey,  was  descended 
from  the  Rev.  Stephen  Bachelor  or  Batchelder  of 
Hampton,  N.H.,  a  man  who  was  famed  for  his 
"splendid  eye.'.'  This  feature,  which  is  generally 
associated  with  genius,  seemed  to  have  been  in 
herited  by  Whittier,  and  Daniel  Webster,  and  Wil 
liam  Pitt  Fessenden,  and  Caleb  dishing.  Dark, 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH.  i\ 

expressive,  penetrating  eyes,  full  of  soul  and  flashing 
with  sudden  lightning  glances,  were  characteristic  of 
the  "  Bachelder  eye,"  common  to  so  many  families  in 
New  Hampshire. 

\\  hittier's  father  married  at  the  age  of  forty-lour 
and  had  only  four  children,  Mary,  John  Greenleaf, 
who  was  born  September  17,  1807,  Matthew  Frank 
lin,  and  Elizabeth  Hussey. 

The  old  Whittier  farmhouse,  with  its  huge  central 
chimney,  faces  the  south ;  the  front  lower  rooms  are 
square,  with  fifteen-inch  oaken  beams  supporting  the 
low  ceilings.  The  poet  was  born  in  the  west  front 
room,  the  two  small-paned  windows  of  which  look 
down  to  a  little  brook,  which  in  those  early  days, 
says  Whittier,  "foamed,  rippled,  and  laughed"  be 
hind  its  natural  fringe  of  bushes.  Across  the  way 
was  the  big  unpainted  barn.  The  scenery  was  the 
typical  landscape  of  New  England  —  a  smooth, 
grassy  knoll  (known  as  Job's  Hill),  woodland  com 
posed  of  oaks,  walnuts,  pines,  firs,  and  spruces,  with 
sumachs,  which  in  the  autumn,  and  in  the  spring  as 
well,  are  gorgeous  with  many  colors.  Whittier,  how 
ever,  was  color  blind,  and  all  that  splendid  display 
counted  as  naught  to  him. 

Behind  the  house  was  the  orchard,  and  behind  the 
orchard  a  clump  of  oaks,  near  which  the  Whittier 
graveyard  used  to  be. 

In  1798  the  farm  was  rated  as  worth  $200.  The 
year  before  the  poet  was  born  his  father  bought  one 
of  three  shares  in  it  for  $600  of  borrowed  money, 
and  the  debt  was  not  cleared  for  a  quarter  of  a  cen 
tury.  Money  was  scarce  in  those  days.  And  yet 


x  BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH. 

John  Whittier  was  honored  by  his  townspeople,  was 
frequently  in  the  public  service,  and  entertained  men 
of  note  at  his  humble  fireside. 

When  Whittier  was  seven  years  old,  he  went  to 
school.  His  first  teacher,  who  was  his  lifelong  friend, 
was  Joshua  Coffin  of  old  Newbury. 

Still  sits  the  school-house  by  the  road, 

A  ragged  beggar  sunning; 
Around  it  still  t^ie  sumachs  grow, 

And  blackberry  vines  are  running. 

Within,  the  master's  desk  is  seen, 

Deep  scarred  by  raps  official ; 
The  warping  floor,  the  battered  seats, 

The  jack-knife's  carved  initial. 

The  charcoal  frescos^on  its  wall ; 

The  door's  worn  sill  betraying 
The  feet  that,  creeping  slow  to  school, 

Went  storming  out  to  playing. 

It  stood  about  half  a  mile  from  Whittier's  home,  but 
the  fount  of  knowledge  flowed  during  only  about 
three  months  in  the  year. 

At  home  the  library  was  scanty.  Only  twenty 
books  or  so,  mostly  journals  and  memoirs  of  pious 
Quakers,  furnished  the  boy  home  reading.  He  would 
walk  miles  to  borrow  a  volume  of  biography  or  travel. 
Naturally,  the  precepts  of  the  Bible,  which  was  daily 
read,  became  a  part  of  his  mental  and  moral  fibre. 
His  poems  are  full  of  references  to  Bible  events  and 
characters.  "In  my  boyhood,'1  he  says,  "in  our 
lonely  farmhouse,  we  had  scanty  sources  of  informa- 


BIOGR. -\rilK.  'A  I    .VAV-:  '/•( '//.  xi 

tion,  few  hooks,  and  only  a  small  \\vrklv  newspaper. 
Our  only  annual  was  the  Almanac.  Under  such 
circumstances  story-telling  was  a  necessary  ivsou ra 
in  the  long  winter  evenings." 

When  Nature  sets  about  to  make  a  poet,  she  has 
her  own  college.  These  apparent  deprivations  are 
enrichments.  They  concentrate  genius.  The  few 
hours  of  regular  schooling  were  counterbalanced 
with  lessons  from  Dame  Nature  herself. 

Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools, 
Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 
Of  the  wild-flower's  time  and  place, 
Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood ; 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 
How  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well ; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young, 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung; 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 
Where  the  ground-nut  trails  its  vine, 
Where  the  wood-grape's  clusters  shine  ; 
Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay, 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet  artisans  ; 
For  eschewing  books  and  tasks, 
Nature  answers  all  he  asks  ! 
Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 
Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks. 

He  goes  on  autobiographically  :  — 

I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees; 


xii  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played, 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade ; 
For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 
Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone  ; 
Laught  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 
Talkt  with  me  from  fall  to  fall ; 
Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond; 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond, 
Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 
Apples  of  Hesperides. 

There  was  scanty  time  for  play,  however;  that 
perpetual  interest  was  eating  up  the  meagre  prod 
ucts  of  the  farm  ;  boys  had  to  put  their  hands  to 
the  plough.  "At  an  early  age,"  he  says,  "I  was 
set  at  work  on  the  farm  and  doing  errands  for  my 
mother,  who,  in  addition  to  her  ordinary  house 
duties,  was  busy  in  spinning  and  weaving  the  linen 
and  woollen  cloth  needed  for  the  family.'" 

The  family  was  large,  consisting,  says  Whittier, 
of  "  my  father,  mother,  my  brother  and  two  sisters, 
and  my  uncle  and  aunt,  both  unmarried."  In  ad 
dition  there  was  the  district  school-master,  who 
boarded  with  them. 

For  -graphic  pen-pictures  of  this  group,  one  must 
go  to  "  Snow-Bound."  There  we  shall  see  Uncle 
Moses,  with  whom  the  boys  delighted  to  go  fishing 
in  the  dancing  brook. 

His  aunt,  Miss  Hussey,  had  the  reputation  of 
making  the  best  squash  pies  that  were  ever  baked. 
The  influence  of  pie  in  developing  character  must 
not  be  overlooked  What  oatmeal  was  to  Carlyle, 


\ 

BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xiii 

what  the  haggis  was  to  Burns,  the  pie  was  to  the 
true  New  Englander.  It  will  not  be  forgotten  how 
fond  Emerson  was  of  pie.  Indigestion  and  poetry 
have  a  certain  strange  alliance  ;  did  not  Byron  pur 
posely  exacerbate  his  stomach  in  order  to  coin  ••  Don 
Juan"  into  guineas? 

Each  member  of  that  delightful  household  stand- 
forth  in  living  lines.  "Snow-Bound"  now  needs 
no  praise.  It  has  been  accepted  as  the  typical  idyl 
of  a  New  England  winter,  the  sweetest  flower  of  New 
England  home  life. 

It  is  greater  than  »'  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night " 
because  it  was  written  more  from  the  heart.  It 
stands  with  <»The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night"  and, 
though,  quite  unlike,  may  have  been  inspired  by 
Burns's  immortal  poem.  To  Burns,  Whittier  owed 
his  first  inspiration,  and  he  himself  tells  how  he 
learned  first  to  know  the  Scotch  poet.  A  wandering 
Scotchman  came  one  day  to  the  Whittier  farmhouse. 
u  After  eating  his  bread  and  cheese  and  drinking  his 
mug  of  cider,  he  gave  us  *  Bonnie  Doon,1  '  Highland 
Mary,1  and  *  Auld  Lang  Syne.1  He  had  a  full  rich 
voice  and  entered  heartily  into  the  spirit  of  his  lyrics." 

When  he  was  fourteen,  Joshua  Coffin  brought  a 
volume  of  Burns's  poems,  and  read  some  of  them, 
greatly  to  his  delight.  Says  Whittier:  "I  begged 
him  to  leave  the  book  with  me,  and  set  myself 
at  once  to  the  task  of  mastering  the  glossary  of 
the  Scottish  dialect  to  its  close.  This  was  about 
the  first  poetry  I  had  ever  read  (with  the  excep 
tion  of  that  of  the  Bible,  of  which  I  had  been  a 
close  student),  and  it  had  a  lasting  influence  upon 


, , 

xiv  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

me.  I  began  to  make  rhymes  myself,  and  to  imag 
ine  stories  and  adventure."  When  pen  and  ink 
failed  him,  he  resorted  to  chalk  or  charcoal,  and  he 
hid  away  his  effusions  with  the  care  with  which  a  cat 
hides  her  young  kittens. 

It  is  interesting  to  know  that  recently  one  or  two 
of  Whittier's  first  attempts  in  rhyme,  in  Scotch 
dialect  and  in  the  manner  of  Burns,  have  been  dis 
covered. 

When  Whittier  was  in  his  eighteenth  year,  that 
is,  in  1825,  he  wrote  several  poems  which  found 
their  way  the  following  year  to  the  Newburyport 
Free  Press,  then  just  established  by  William  Lloyd 
Garrison.  The  Whittiers  subscribed  for  it,  and  in 
the  "Poets'  Corner"  appeared  in  print  the  first  of 
the  young  man's  published  verses,  entitled  "The 
Exile's  Departure,"  written  in  the  meter  of  "  The 
Old  Oaken  Bucket."  It  is  noticeable  that  the  Exile 
sings :  - 

Farewell,  shores  of  Erin,  green  land  of  my  fathers, 
Once  more  and  forever,  a  mournful  adieu. 

It  would  seem  that  Thomas  Moore's  Irish  melodies 
must  have  fallen  into  his  hands.  The  trace  of  Whit 
tier's  reading  is  often  to  be  found  in  his  poems. 
"  Mogg  Megone  "  also  shows  the  insidious  influence 
of  "Lalla  Rookh."  "The  Bridal  of  Pennacook"  is 
Wordsworth,  pure  and  simple,  the  praise  of  whom 
betrays  its  origin  ;  but  not  as  yet,  and  not  until  long 
afterwards,  did  he  succeed  in  attaining  felicity  in 
epithet.  It  was  also  the  day  of  the  Scott  and  of  the 
Byron  fever,  and  Whittier  did  not  escape  it. 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH.  xv 

It  is  said  that  Whittier  \vas  mending  fences  when 
the  carrier  brought  the  paper  that  contained  his  first 
printed  lines  and  the  editorial  notice:  "If  W.  at 
Haverhill  will  continue  to  favor  us  with  pieces  beau 
tiful  as  the  one  inserted  in  our  poetical  department  of 
to-day,  we  shall  esteem  it  a  favor."  Whittier  could 
hardly  believe  his  eyes.  He  accepted  the  invitation. 
The  second  of  his  J^rec  Press  poems  was  in  blank 
verse  and  entitled  <%  Deity."  He  confided  the  secret 
to  his  sister.  She  informed  Garrison  that  it  was  her 
brother  who  wrote  them.  One  day  when  the  young 
poet  was  hoeing  in  the  cornfield,  clad  only  in  shirt, 
trousers,  and  straw  hat,  he  was  summoned  into  the 
house  to  see  a  visitor.  It  proved  to  be  Garrison, 
who  had  driven  over  from  Newburyport  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  his  contributor.  He  insisted  that 
Whittier  showed  such  talent  that  he  ought  to  have 
further  education. 

Whittier's  father  remonstrated  against  putting 
notions  into  the  lad's  head.  "  Sir,"  he  said,  "  poetry 
will  not  give  him  bread."  Besides,  there  was  no 
money  and  no  prospect  of  money.  Suddenly  a  way 
opened.  A  young  hired  man  knew  how  to  make 
ladies'  shoes  and  slippers.  He  offered  to  teach  the 
art  to  his  employer's  son.  Mr.  Moses  Emerson,  one 
of  Whittier's  early  teachers,  used  to  relate  how  Whit 
tier  worked  at  his  shoemaking  in  a  little  shop  which 
stood  in  the  yard,  and  how  he  sat  on  a  bench  amid 
tanned  hides,  pincers,  bristles,  paste  pots,  and  rosin, 
stitching  for  dear  life. 

During  the  following  winter  he  earned  by  it  enough 
money  to  buy  a  suit  of  clothes  and  pay  for  six  months' 


p 

xvi  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

schooling  at  the  new  Academy  in  Haverhill.  Whit- 
tier  wrote  the  ode  that  was  sung  at  the  dedication  of 
the  new  building.  He  boarded  at  the  house  of  Mr. 
A.  W.  Thayer,  editor  and  publisher  of  the  Haverhill 
Gazette.  Naturally  the  young  poet  contributed  also 
to  this  paper  some  of  his  verses.  He  was  now  nine 
teen,  and  was  long  remembered  as  "  a  very  handsome, 
distinguished-looking  young  man "  with  remarkably 
handsome  eyes ;  tall,  slight,  and  very  erect,  bashful 
but  never  awkward. 

Whittier  used  to  like  to  relate  the  story  of  his  first 
visit  to  Boston.  He  was  dressed  in  a  new  suit  of 
homespun,  which  for  the  first  time  were  adorned  with 
"boughten  buttons.1'  He  expected  to  spend  a  week 
with  the  Greenes,  who  were  family  connections. 
Shortly  after  his  arrival  he  sallied  forth  to  see  the 
sights.  He  described  how  he  wandered  up  and  down 
the  streets,  but  somehow  found  it  different  from  what 
he  expected.  The  crowd  was  worse  on  Washington 
Street,  and  he  soon  got  tired  of  being  jostled  and 
thought  he  would  step  aside  into  an  alley-way  and 
wait  till  "  the  folks  "  got  by.  But  there  was  no  cessa 
tion  of  the  "  terrible  stream  of  people,"  some  of  whom 
stared  at  him  with  curious  or  mocking  eyes.  He 
stayed  there  a  long  time  and  began  to  be  "  lonesome." 

At  last,  however,  he  mustered  courage  to  leave  his 
"  coign  of  vantage,"  and  safely  reached  Mrs.  Greene's 
in  time  for  tea.  She  had  guests,  among  them  a  gay 
young  woman  whose  beauty  and  vivacity  especially 
interested  him.  But  she  began  to  talk  about  the 
theatre,  and  finally  asked  him  to  be  present  that 
evening.  She  was  the  leading  lady!  Whittier  had 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xvii 

promised  his  mother  that  he  would  never  enter  a  play 
house.  He  was  terribly  shocked  at  the  danger  which 
he  had  run.  He  could  not  sleep  that  night,  and  next 
morning  he  took  the  early  stage-coach  for  his  country 
home.  In  after  years  he  told  this  story  with  great 
zest,  but  he  never  broke  the  promise  which  he  made 
to  his  mother. 

At  the  close  of  the  term,  Whittier  taught  the  dis 
trict  school  at  West  Amesbury,  thus  enabling  him  to 
return  for  another  six  months  at  the  Atademy.  Gar 
rison  had  meantime  gone  to  Boston,  and  through  his 
influence  Whittier  secured  a  place  there  at  a  salary  of 
nine  dollars  a  week  on  the  American  Manufacturer. 
But  this  engagement  was  of  short  duration.  In  1830 
he  was  editing  the  Haverhill  Gazette.  He  was  begin 
ning  to  be  widely  known  as  a  poet.  Next  he  became 
editor  of  the  New  England  Weekly  Review  of  Hart 
ford,  Conn.,  to  which  he  also  contributed  upwards  of 
forty  poems,  besides  sketches  and  tales  in  prose.  He 
boarded  at  the  Exchange  Coffee  House,  and  lived  a 
solitary,  sedentary  life.  His  health  even  then  was 
delicate.  At  this  time,  if  ever,  occurred  the  hinted 
romance  of  his  life.  Writing  of  a  visit  to  his  home, 
he  said :  "  I  can  say  that  I  have  clasped  more  than 
one  fair  hand,  and  read  my  welcome  in  more  than  one 
bright  eye.'1  More  than  one  love-poem  dated  from 
this  time.  Long  afterwards  he  touched  upon  these 
episodes  in  "Memories11  and  in  "A  Sea-dream.11 
But  Whittier  never  married. 

He  published  his  first  volume  in  1831,  —  "Legends 
of  New  England,'1  a  collection  of  his  prose  and  verse. 
This  was  afterwards  suppressed,  as  well  as  his  first 


xviii  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

narrative  poem,  "  Moll  Pitcher/1  published  the  follow 
ing  year.  So  far,  with  much  promise,  he  had  as  yet 
shown  little  originality.  He  bade  fair  to  be  simply  a 
poet.  But  two  years  later  he  took  part  in  an  event 
which  was  destined  to  change  the  face  of  all  things, 
not  for  him  alone,  but  for  his  country.  In  1833  he 
helped  to  organize  the  American  Anti-slavery  Society. 
Henceforth,  during  a  whole  generation,  his  life  was 
to  be  a  warfare  :  — 

Our  fathers  to  their  grave,*  Have  gone ; 

Their  strife  is  past,  their  triumph  won ; 

But  sterner  trials  wait  the  race 

Which  rises  in  their  honored  place, — 

A  moral  warfare  with  the  crime 

And  folly  of  an  evil  time. 

So  let  it  be.     In  God's  own  mi^ht 

We  gird  us  for  the  coming  fight 

And,  strong  in  Him  whose  caus«  ;s  ours 

In  conflict  with  unholy  powers, 

We  grasp  the  weapons  He  has  giv-?n,  — 

The  Light  and  Truth  and  Love  of  1  leaven. 

Side  by  side  with  William  Lloyd  G^nson  stood 
Whittier.  The  manifesto  of  the  one  was  *,he  inspira 
tion  of  the  other :  "  I  will  be  harsh  as  truth  and  as 
uncompromising  as  justice.  I  am  in  earnest;  I  will 
not  equivocate  ;  I  will  not  excuse  ;  I  will  not  retreat 
a  single  inch,  and  I  will  be  heard! " 

Whittier  in  the  same  spirit  sang :  — 

II  we  have  whispered  truth,  whisper  no  longer; 
Speak  as  the  tempest  does,  sterner  and  stronger; 

Still  be  the  tones  of  truth  louder  and  firmer, 
Startling  the  haughty  South  with  the  deep  murmur; 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH.  xix 

God  and  our  charter's  right,  Freedom  forever, 
Truce  with  oppression,  never,  Oh,  never! 

Nor  would  he  allow  the  charms  of  mere  literature 
to  beguile  him  into  pleasant  paths.  Putting  aside 
melancholy,  sentimental  yearnings,  he  resisted  the 
temptation,  as  he  pathetically  sings  in  the  poem 
entitled  •<  Ego." 

The  question  of  slavery  began  to  be  borne  in  upon 
him  even  before  he  settled  in  Hartford.  On  his 
return  home  he  made  a  thorough  study  of  the  subject 
and  wrote  a  twenty-three*  page  pamphlet  entitled 
••  Justice  and  Expediency ;  or,  Slavery  Considered 
with  a  View  to  its  Rightful  and  Effectual  Remedy,  — 
Abolition."  It  was  printed  at  Haverhill  at  his  own 
expense.  Its  argument  was  never  answered.  It  con 
cluded  with  this  eloquent  peroration  :  — 

"  And  when  the  stain  on  our  own  escutcheon  shall  be  seen 
no  more ;  when  the  Declaration  of  Independence  and  the 
practice  of  our  people  shall  agree;  when  Truth  shall  be 
exalted  among  us ;  when  Love  shall  take  the  place  of  Wrong ; 
when  all  the  baneful  pride  and  prejudice  of  caste  and  color 
shall  fall  forever;  when  under  one  common  sun  of  political 
Liberty  the  slave-holding  portions  of  our  Republic  shall  no 
longer  sit  like  Egyptians  of  old,  themselves  mantled  in  thick 
darkness  while  all  around  them  is  glowing  with  the  blessed 
light  of  freedom  and  equality  —  then  and  not  till  then  shall  it 

GO  WELL   FOR  AMERICA." 

This  preceded  and  led  to  his  appointment  as  one 
of  the  delegates  of  the  great  Anti-slavery  Convention 
at  Philadelphia.  Next  to  Magna  Charta  and  the 
Declaration  of  Independence,  the  Declaration  of 


xx  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

Principles  then  formulated,  and  signed  by  Whittier, 
is  a  document  of  which  the  generations  unborn  will 
be  most  proud.  A  copy  of  it  framed  in  wood  from 
Pennsylvania  Hall,  destroyed  by  a  pro-slavery  mob, 
was  one  of  Whittier1  s  most  precious  possessions. 

In  spite  of  his  stand  on  an  unpopular  side,  Whit- 
tier's  character  was  appreciated  by  his  fellow-citizens. 
He  was  elected  a  member  of  the  Massachusetts  State 
legislature  in  1835.  He  held  only  one  other  public 
office  —  that  of  presidential  elector.  But  the  people 
of  his  own  communion  looked  askance  upon  his 
political,  reformatory,  and  literary  achievements.  He 
was  even  brought  into  danger  of  discipline,  and  it  is 
said  that  in  his  later  days  he  used  to  remark  jokingly 
that  not  until  he  was  old  would  the  Quakers  of  his 
society  show  any  willingness  to  put  upon  him  the 
little  dignities  from  which  his  position  as  a  reformer 
had  in  his  youth  excluded  him. 

The  very  year  that  he  was  a  member  of  the  Mas 
sachusetts  legislature,  he  had  his  first  experience  of 
a  mob.  George  Thompson,  the  famous  English 
abolitionist  and  member  of  Parliament,  came  to 
this  country  to  preach  abolition.  It  was  noised 
abroad  that  he  was  brought  over  to  disseminate 
dissension  between  North  and  South,  so  as  to  de 
stroy  American  trade,  to  the  advantage  of  British. 
This  noble  reformer  had  narrrowly  escaped  a  mob  in 
Salem.  Whittier  invited  him  to  his  East  Haver- 
hill  home,  that  he  might  have  perfect  rest  and 
quiet.  The  two  men  enjoyed  making  hay  together 
and  were  entirely  unmolested.  At  last  they  started 
to  drive  to  Plymouth,  N.H.,  to  visit  a  prominent 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  xxi 

abolitionist  there.  On  their  way  they  stopped  at 
Concord,  where  Thompson  was  invited  to  speak  on 
reform. 

After  the  lecture  they  found  it  impossible  to 
leave  the  hall,  which  was  surrounded  by  a  mob  oi 
several  hundred  persons.  On  their  way  back,  they 
were  assailed  with  stones.  Whittier  declared  that 
he  understood  -how  St.  Paul  felt  when  the  Je\\^  at- 
tacked  him.  Fortunately,  their  heads  were  not 
broken,  but  they  were  severely  lamed.  The  mob 
surrounded  the  house  and  demanded  that  the 
Quaker  and  his  guest  should  be  handed  over  to 
them.  His  host  opened  the  door  and  exclaimed : 
"  Whoever  comes  in  here  must  come  in  over  my 
dead  body."  Decoyed  away,  the  rabble  returned 
with  muskets  and  a  cannon.  Their  lives  were  in 
danger.  They  managed  to  harness  a  horse,  and 
then,  when  the  gate  was  suddenly  opened,  they 
drove  off  at  a  furious  gallop  and  escaped  from  the 
hooting  mob,  which  one  of  themselves  afterwards 
declared  was  like  a  throng  of  demons.  At  Plymouth 
they  narrowly  escaped  another  mobbing.  Not  long 
after,  when  Whittier  was  attending  an  extra  session 
of  the  legislature,  the  female  anti-slavery  society 
meeting  was  broken  up  by  a  mob.  The  police 
rescued  Garrison,  just  as  they  were  going  to  hang 
him  to  a  lamp-post.  Whittier's  sister  was  one  of 
the  delegates,  and  the  two  were  stopping  at  the 
same  house.  Whittier  managed  to  remove  her  to  a 
place  of  safety;  he  and  Samuel  J.  May  sat  up  all 
night  watching  developments.  Those  were  excit 
ing  times. 


xxii  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

Most  of  the  year  Whittier,  like  Cincianatus, 
worked  his  farm.  His  father  had  died,  and  the 
brunt  of  the  burden  of  supporting  the  family  rested 
on  him.  He  was  often  seen  in  the  fall  of  the 
year  at  the  head  of  tide-water  in  the  Merrimack, 
exchanging  apples  and  vegetables  for  the  salt-fish 
brought  by  coasting  vessels.  In  the  spring  of 
March,  1838,  he  went  to  Philadelphia  to  edit  the 
Pennsylvania  Freeman,  which  had  its  offices  in 
a  large  building  built  by  the  anti-slavery  people, 
and  named  Pennsylvania  Hall.  It  was  publicly 
opened  on  the  fifteenth  of  May  with  speeches,  and 
a  long  poem  by  Whittier.  That  evening  a  stone 
was  flung  through  one  of  the  windows  of  the  hall. 
This  was  the  preliminary  symptom  of  impending 
trouble.  The  next  day  a  mob  collected  and  dis 
turbed  the  meetings  with  their  jeers  and  yells.  On 
the  third  day,  in  spite  of  the  association's  formal 
demand  for  protection,  and  the  mayor's  promise, 
the  building  was  given  into  the  hands  of  the  mob, 
which  sacked  it  and  then  set  it  on  fire.  The  fire 
men  refused  to  quench  the  flames  and  were  com 
plimented  by  the  Southern  press  on  their  noble 
conduct.  One  paper  printed  a  boasting  letter  from 
a  participant  saying  :  "  Not  a  drop  of  water  did  they 
pour  on  that  accursed  Moloch  until  it  was  a  heap  of 
ruins." 

A  charitable  shelter  for  colored  orphans  was  also 
burned,  and  a  colored  church  was  attacked  and 
wrecked.  The  members  of  the  Pennsylvania  Anti- 
slavery  Society  met  the  next  morning  after  the 
outrage,  beside  the  smoking  ruins  of  their  hall,  and 


BIOGRAPHICAL    Sk'I-.TCH.  xxiii 

calmly  elected  their  officers  while  a  vast  mob  was 
still  howling  around  them.  Whittier's  investment 
in  the  paper  was  lost,  but  he  stayed  in  Philadelphia 
for  about  a  year,  when  his  tailing  health  compelled 
him  to  return  to  Massachusetts.  The  East  Haver- 
hill  farm  was  sold  in  1840,  and  he  removed  with 
his  mother,  sister,  and  aunt  to  Amesbury,  which 
was  his  It'^il  residence  through  the  rest  of  his  life. 
Within  ten  or  twelve  minutes1  walk  of  Whittier's 
house  rises  Pow-wow  Hill,  so  often  celebrated  in 
his  verse.  The  surrounding  region  which  is  visible 
from  it  has  been  well  called  his  Ayrshire :  far  to 
the  north  the  White  Mountains  are  dimly  visible,— 
his  beloved  Ossipee  and  Bearcamp.  To  the  south, 
Agamenticus  —  Adamaticus,  as  the  natives  call  it  — 
stands  in  its  purple  isolation.  The  Isles  of  Shoals 
are  visible,  like  rough  stones  in  a  turquoise  arch,  the 
lone  line  of  beaches  which  he  often  called  by  name, 
and  the  rock-ribbed  coast  of  Cape  Ann.  Scarcely 
a  point  which  had  not  a  legend,  scarcely  a  legend 
which  he  did  not  put  into  verse. 

After  the  death  of  his  sister  and  the  marriage  of 
his  niece,  he  resided  during  the  most  of  the  year 
with  his  cousins,  at  their  beautiful  country-seat  at 
Oak  Knoll,  Danvers. 

The  storm  and  stress  were  past.  Henceforth,  for 
the  most  part,  he  devoted  his  genius  to  song.  His 
watchword  was  :  — 

Our  country,  and  Liberty  and  God  for  the  Right. 

He  was  not  afraid  to  lift  the  whip  of  scorpion 
stings  :  he  called  the  pro-slavery  congressmen  :  — 


xxiv  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

A  passive  herd  of  Northern  mules, 

Just  braying  from  their  purchased  throats 
Whate'er  their  owner  rules. 

The  Northern  author  of  the  congressional  rule 
against  receiving  the  petitions  of  the  people  in  regard 
to  slavery  was  thus  held  up  to  execration  :  — 

.  .  .  the  basest  of  the  base, 
The  vilest  of  the  vile, —  .  .  . 

A  mark  for  every  passing  blast 
Of  scorn  to  whistle  through. 

When  he  felt  that  Daniel  Webster,  whom  he  had 
so  much  admired,  was  recreant,  he  wrote  against  him 
that  tremendous  accusation  entitled  "  Ichabod."  He 
never  ceased,  however,  to  regret  the  severity  of  those 
awful  lines,  which  make  Browning's  "  Lost  Leader M 
sound  flat  and  insipid  in  comparison. 

Whittier  was  never  despondent.  In  the  darkest 
hours  he  saw  the  rainbow  promise  bent  on  high. 

He  cried  in  1844  to  the  men  of  Massachusetts :  — 

Shrink  not  from  strife  unequal ! 

With  the  best  is  always  hope ; 
And  ever  in  the  sequel 

God  holds  the  right  side  up. 

Thus,  while  he  knew  how  to  apply  the  lash,  he  also 
could  cheer,  and  encourage,  and  advise.  His  prac 
tical  common  sense,  his  clear  vision,  saw  far  ahead. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  write  the  history  of 
Emancipation  and  not  recognize  the  influence  of 


BIOGRArilR'AL    SKETCH.  xxv 

WhitHer's  lyrics.  Lacking  in  imagination,  in  grace, 
in  what  is  commonly  called  poetic  charm,  often 
clumsy,  ill-rhymed,  and  unrhythmical,  they  yet  have 
an  awakening  power  like  that  of  a  trumpet.  Plain 
and  unadorned,  they  appealed  to  a  plain  and  simple 
people.  They  won  their  way  by  these  very  homely 
qualities. 

Whittier  learned  from  his  parents  the  art  of 
story-telling.  Naturally,  the  Indians  first  appealed 
to  him,  and  many  of  his  earliest  poems  have  the 
Red-skins  as,  their  heroes;  speaking  of  "  Mogg 
Megone"  many  years  after  it  was  written,  he 
says :  — 

*'  Looking  at  it  at  the  present  time,  it  suggests  the 
idea  of  a  big  Indian  in  his  war-paint  strutting  about 
in  Sir  Walter  Scott's  plaid." 

But  the  early  history  of  New  England  was  full 
of  folk-lore,  and  Whittier  had  the  ballad-maker's 
instinct.  As  he  grew  older,  his  sureness  of  touch 
increased.  The  homely  names  conferred  on  his 
native  brooks  and  ponds  fitted  into  his  verse. 
Thus :  - 

The  dark  pines  sing  on  Ramoth  Hill 
The  slow  song  of  the  sea. 

The  sweetbriar  blooms  on  Kittery-side 
And  green  are  Eliot's  bowers. 

And  he  talks  about  the  "  nuts  of  Wenham  woods." 

One    could    quote    hundreds    of    such    felicitous 

touches,  which  endear  a  poet  to  his  neighbors  and 

then    to    his    nation.     Catching   hold    of    the    New 

England    legends    and   turning   them    into    homely 


xxvi  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

rhymes,  as  a  ballad-singer  would  have  done  in 
the  early  days,  he  becomes  not  only  the  poet,  but 
the  creator  of  the  legends.  The  very  meaning  of  the 
word  "  poet1'  is  the  maker.  A  friend  sends  him  the 
rough  prose  outline  of  a  story  connected  with  some 
old  house,  and  Whittier  easily  remodels  it  and 
makes  it  his  own.  Thus  he  is  the  Poet  of  New 
England,  and  as  New  England  has  colonized  the 
West,  his  fame  spreads  over  the  whole  land.  He 
gets  hearers  for  himself  by  this  double  capacity. 
He  is  the  ballad-maker ;  and  in  this  view  he  stands 
far  higher  as  a  poet  than  in  his  nobler  but  less 
poetic  capacity  of  Laureate  of  Freedom  and  Faith. 
The  word  "Liberty"  has  a  hundred  rhymes;  the 
word  "slave"  its  dozens.  How  the  poet  is  put  to  it 
when  he  wants  to  find  a  rhyme  for  "  love"  ! 
"Dove"  and  "above"  and  "glove"  are  about  all 
the  words  that  are  left  to  him.  Whittier,  with  his 
ease  of  rhyming,  put  little  poetry  but  immense 
feeling  into  his  anti-slavery  poems.  Not  by  them 
will  he  be  judged  as  a  poet. 

He  has  still  another  claim  on  us.  He  was  the 
descendant  of  godly  men  and  women.  No  Ameri 
can  poet  of  his  rank  was  so  distinctively  religious, 
and  yet  his  verse  is  absolutely 

undimmed 

By  dust  of  theologic  strife  or  breath 
Of  sect,  or  cobwebs  of  scholastic  lore. 

He  could  not  be  kept  within  the  narrow  limits  of  a 
sect.  His  religion  was  a  vital  principle  with  him- 
Like  his  own  "  Quaker  of  the  Olden  Time,"  he  made 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKI:  TCI  I.  xxvii 

his  daily  life  a  prayer.  Faith  in  God  was  supreme. 
Read  any  of  his  hymns,  his  addresses  to  friends,  his 
memorials  to  the  dead ;  there  are  more  than  seventy 
of  them  gathered  in  the  second  volume  of  his  col 
lected  works.  How  they  speak  of  immortality  and 
the  Eternal  Goodness!  In  one  of  his  last  poems, 
while  he  speaks  almost  mournfully  of  sitting  alone 
and  watching  the 

warm,  sweet  day 
Lapse  tenderly  away, 

he  calms  his  troubled  thought  with  these  words  :  — 

Wait,  while  these  few  swift-passing  days  fulfil 

The  wise  disposing  Will, 
And,  in  the  evening  as  at  moriiing,  trust 

The  All-merciful  and  Just. 

The  solemn  joy  that  soul  communion  feels 

Immortal  life  reveals; 
And  human  love,  its  prophecy  ar.d  sign, 

Interprets  love  divine. 

One  of  his  last  letters  was  written  in  favor  of  a 
union  of  the  numerous  sects  in  the  one  vital  centre 
—  the  Christ.  After  this,  it  seems  almost  ungracious 
to  speak  critically  of  Whittier's  work.  He  himself 
often  wished  that  at  least  half  of  it  were  sunk  in 
the  Red  Sea.  A  good  deal  of  his  early  wrork  had 
indeed 

The  simple  air  and  rustic  dress 
And  sign  of  haste  and  carelessness 


xxx  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

And  again:  "  twixt  thou  and  I."  In  spite  of  these 
faults,  we  would  not  willingly  let  a  line  of  Whittier's 
verse  perish.  Even  the  fugitive  pieces  of  his 
youth,  which  he  himself  came  to  detest,  the  crudities 
of  "Mogg  Megone,"  are  interesting  and  valuable. 
When  his  verse  is  studied  chronologically,  it  is  easy 
to  see  what  constant  progress  he  made.  It  was  the 
noble  growth  of  a  New  England  pine,  which,  while 
the  branches  near  the  ground  are  dead  and  broken, 
still  towers  up  higher  and  higher,  with  ever  abundant 
foliage  toward  the  sun-kissed  top.  And  what  pict 
ures  he  painted  ! 

Whittier,  without  the  advantages,  or  so-called 
advantages,  of  college  training,  without  ever  travel 
ling  abroad,  a  hermit,  almost,  in  his  later  years, 
keeping  aloof  from  the  people,  painfully  suffering 
from  constant  ill-health,  unable  to  work  half  an  hour 
at  a  time,  ranks  with  the  greatest  of  American  men 
of  letters.  His  prose  is  simple  and  pure ;  his  verse 
goes  right  to  the  heart.  It  is  free  from  the  senti 
mentality  and  turbidity  of  Lowell,  from  the  artificial 
ity  that  we  sometimes  feel  in  Longfellow,  from  the 
classic  coldness  of  Bryant.  He  was  the  poet  of  the 
people,  and  yet  the  cultured  find  no  less  to  love  and 
admire  in  him.  To  have  written  "Snow-Bound" 
alone  would  have  been  to  achieve  immortality.  But 
Whittier  wrote  so  many  popular  poems,  which  have 
become  household  words,  that  I  have  not  even  at 
tempted  to  enumerate  them  or  the  date  of  their 
appearing. 

He  lived  to  see  the  crown  of  immortality  unani 
mously  conferred  upon  him.  He  lived  to  a  grand 


BIO  GRA I '///  c ',/  /.    -VA7-:  7  Y  7/.  xxxi 

old  age,  and  yet  he  has  said  that  for  many  years 
not  merely  the  exertion  of  writing  but  even  the 
mere  thought  of  taking  his  pen  into  his  hand 
brought  on  a  terrible  headache.  Neither  could  he 
read  with  comfort.  He  therefore  had  to  sit  patiently 
and  wait  for  Friend  Death  to  come  and  lead  him 
into  that  world  where  he  believed  the  loved  ones 
were  waiting  to  welcome  him.  He  died  on  the 
seventh  of  September,  1892,  not  at  his  favorite 
abiding-place  at  Oak  Knoll,  Danvers,  but  at  Hamp 
ton  Falls,  N.H.,  where  he  was  visiting  the  daughter 
of  an  old  friend.  Pure,  simple,  humble,  unspoiled, 
full  of  love  to  God  and  man,  triumphing  in  his  faith, 
Whittier  went  forward  into  the  unknown.  Such  a 
death  is  not  to  be  deplored.  He  was  willing,  nay, 
anxious  to  go. 

Let  the  thick  curtain  fall ; 

I  better  know  than  all 

How  little  I  have  gained, 

How  vast  the  unattained. 

Sweeter  than  any  sung 

My  songs  that  found  no  tongue; 

Nobler  than  any  fact 

My  wish  that  failed  of  act. 

Others  shall  sing  the  song, 
Others  shall  right  the  wrong, 
Finish  what  I  begin, 
And  all  I  fail  of,  win  ! 

The  airs  of  heaven  blow  o'er  me, 
A  glory  shines  before  me 
Of  what  mankind  shall  be  — 
Pure,  generous,  brave,  and  free. 


xxxii  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH. 

Ring,  bells  in  unreared  steeples, 
The  joy  of  unborn  peoples  ! 
Sound,  trumpets  far  off  blown, 
Your  tiiumph  is  my  own  ! 


NATHAN   HASKELL  DOLE, 


THE    BRIDAL   OF    PENNACOOK.* 


WE  had  been  wandering  for  many  days 

Through  the  rough  northern  country.     We  had  seen 

The  sunset,  with  its  bars  of  purple  cloud, 

Like  a  new  heaven,  shine  upward  from  the  lake 

Of  Winnepiseogee  ;  and  had  felt 

The  sunrise  breezes,  midst  the  leafy  aisles 

Which  stoop  their  summer  beauty  to  the  lips 

Of  the  bright  waters.     We  had  checked  our  steeds, 

1  Winnepurkit,  otherwise  called  George,  Sachem  of  Saugus, 
married  a  daughter  of  Passaconaway,  the  great  Pennacook 
chieftain,  in  1662.  The  wedding  took  place  at  Pennacook 
(now  Concord,  N.  H.),  and  the  ceremonies  closed  with  a 
great  feast.  According  to  the  usages  of  the  chiefs,  Passacona 
way  ordered  a  select  number  of  his  men  to  accompany  the 
newly-married  couple  to  the  dwelling  of  the  husband,  where 
in  turn  there  was  another  great  feast.  Some  time  after,  the 
wife  of  Winnepurkit  expressing  a  desire  to  visit  her  father's 
house,  was  permitted  to  go  accompanied  by  a  brave  escort  of 
her  husband's  chief  men.  But  when  she  wished  to  return,  her 
father  sent  a  messenger  to  Saugus,  informing  her  husband,  and 
asking  him  to  come  and  take  her  away.  He  returned  for 
answer  that  he  had  escorted  his  wife  to  her  father's  house  in  a 
«tyle  that  became  a  chief,  and  that  now  if  she  wished  to  return, 
her  father  must  send  her  back  in  the  same  way.  This  Passa 
conaway  refused  to  do,  and  it  is  said  that  here  terminated  the 
connection  of  his  daughter  with  the  Saugus  chief.  —  Vide  Mar 
ton's  \ew  Canaan. 

I 


2    :          THE  BRIDAL  'OF  PENNACOOK. 

Silent  with  wonder,  where  the  mountain  wall 

Is  piled  to  heaven  ;  and,  through  the  narrow  rift 

Of  the  vast  rocks,  against  whose  rugged  feet 

Beats  the  mad  torrent  with  perpetual  roar, 

Where  noonday  is  as  twilight,  and  the  wind 

Comes  burdened  with  the  everlasting  moan 

Of  forests  and  of  far-off  water-falls. 

We  had  looked  upward  where  the  summer  sky, 

Tasselled  with  clouds  light-woven  by  the  sun, 

Sprung  its  blue  arch  above  the  abutting  crags 

O'er-roofing  the  vast  portal  of  the  land 

Beyond  the  wall  of  mountains.     We  had  passed 

The  high  source  of  the  Saco  ;  and,  bewildered 

In  the  dwarf  spruce-belts  of  the  Crystal  Hills, 

Had  heard  above  us,  like  a  voice  in  the  cloud, 

The  horn  of  Fabyan  sounding  ;  and  atop 

Of  old  Agioochook  had  seen  the  mountains 

Piled   to   the   northward,   shagged  with   wood,   and 

thick 

As  meadow  molt  nills  —  the  far  sea  of  Casco, 
A  white  gleam  or.  the  horizon  of  the  east ; 
Fair  lakes,  embosc  ned  in  the  woods  and  hills  ; 
Moosehillock's  mo\  itain  range,  and  Kearsarge 
Lifting  his  Titan  forehead  to  the  sun! 

And  we  had  rested  underneath  the  oaks 

Shadowing  the  bank,  whose  grassy  spires  are  shaken 

By  the  perpetual  beating  of  the  falls 

Of  the  wild  Ammonoosuc.     We  had  tracked 

The  winding  Pemigewasset,  overhung 

By  beechen  shadows,  whitening  down  its  rocks, 

Or  lazily  gliding  through  its  intervals, 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK.  3 

From  waving  rye-fields  sending  up  the  gleam 
Of  sunlit  waters.     We  had  seen  the  moon 
Rising  behind  Umbagog's  eastern  pines 
Like  a  great  Indian  camp-fire;  and  its  beams 
At  midnight  spanning  with  a  bridge  of  silver 
The  Merrimack  by  Uncanoonuc's  falls. 

There  were  five  souls  of  us  whom  travel's  chance 

Had  thrown  together  in  these  wild  north  hills  :  — 

A  city  lawyer,  for  a  month  escaping 

From  his  dull  office,  where  the  weary  eye 

Saw  only  hot  brick  walls  and  close  throaged  streets  — 

Briefless  as  yet,  but  with  an  eye  to  see 

Life's  sunniest  side,  and  with  a  heart  to  take 

Its  chances  all  as  God-sends ;  and  his  brother, 

Pale  from  long  pulpit  studies,  yet  retaining 

The  warmth  and  freshness  of  a  genial  heart, 

Whose  mirror  of  the  beautiful  and  true, 

In  Man  and  Nature,  was  as  yet  undimmed 

By  dust  of  theologic  strife,  or  breath 

Of  sect,  or  cobwebs  of  scholastic  lore  ; 

Like  a  clear  crystal  calm  of  water,  taking 

The  hue  and  image  of  o'erleaning  flowers, 

Sweet  human  faces,  white  clouds  of  the  noon, 

Slant  starlight  glimpses  through  the  dewy  leaves, 

And  tenderest  moonrise.     'T  was,  in  truth,  a  study, 

To  mark  his  spirit,  alternating  between 

A  decent  and  professional  gravity 

And  an  irreverent  mirthfulness,  which  often 

Laughed  in  the  face  of  his  divinity, 

Plucked  off  the  sacred  ephod,  quite  unshrined 

The  oracle,  and  for  the  pattern  priest 


4  THE   BRIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK. 

Left  us  the  man.     A  shrewd,  sagacious  merchant, 

To  whom  the  soiled  sheet  found  in  Crawford's  inn, 

Giving  the  latest  news  of  city  stocks 

And  sales  of  cotton  had  a  deeper  meaning 

Than  the  great  presence  of  the  awful  mountains 

Glorified  by  the  sunset ;  —  and  his  daughter, 

A  delicate  flower  on  whom  had  blown  too  long 

Those  evil  winds,  which,  sweeping  from  the  ice 

And  winnowing  the  fogs  of  Labrador, 

Shed  their  cold  blight  round  Massachusetts'  bay, 

With  the  same  breath  which  stirs  Spring's  opening 

leaves 

And  lifts  her  half-formed  flower-bell  on  its  stem, 
Poisoning  our  sea-side  atmosphere. 

It  chanced 

That  as  we  turned  upon  our  homeward  way, 
A  drear  north-eastern  storm  came  howling  up 
The  valley  of  the  Saco  ;  and  that  girl 
Who  had  stood  with  us  upon  Mount  Washington, 
Her  brown  locks  ruffled  by  the  wind  which  whirled 
In  gusts  around  its  sharp  cold  pinnacle, 
Who  had  joined  our  gay  trout-fishing  in  the  streams 
Which  lave  that  giant's  feet ;  whose  laugh  was  heard 
Like  a  bird's  carol  on  the  sunrise  breeze 
Which    swelled    our    sail    amidst    the    lake's    green 

islands, 
Shrank    from   its    harsh,   chill    breath,   and   visibly 

drooped 

Like  a  flower  in  the  frost.     So,  in  that  quiet  inn 
Which  looks  from  Conway  on  the  mountains  piled 
Heavily  against  the  horizon  of  the  north. 


THE   BRIDAL    OF  PRNNACOOK.  5 

Like  summer  thunder-clouds,  we  made  our  home  : 

And  while  the  mist  hung  over  dripping  hills, 

And  the  cold  wind-driven  rain-drops,  all  day  long 

Beat  their  sad  music  upon  roof  and  pane, 

We  strove  to  cheer  our  gentle  invalid. 

The  lawyer  in  the  pauses  of  the  storm 

Went  angling  down  the  Saco,  and,  returning, 

Recounted  his  adventures  and  mishaps ; 

Gave  us  the  history  of  his  scaly  clients, 

Mingling  with  ludicrous  yet  apt  citations 

Of  barbarous  law  Latin,  passages 

From  Izaak  Walton's  Angler,  sweet  and  fresh 

As  the  flower-skirted  streams  of  Staffordshire 

Where,  under  aged  trees,  the  south-west  wind 

Of  soft  June  mornings  fanned  the  thin,  white  hair 

Of  the  sage  fisher.     And,  if  truth  be  told, 

Our  youthful  candidate  forsook  his  sermons, 

His  commentaries,  articles  and  creeds 

For  the  fair  page  of  human  loveliness  — 

The  missal  of  young  hearts,  whose  sacred  text 

Is  music,  its  illumining  sweet  smiles. 

He  sang  the  songs  she  loved ;  and  in  his  low, 

Deep  earnest  voice,  recited  many  a  page 

Of  poetry  —  the  holiest,  tenderest  lines 

Of  the  sad  bard  of  Olney  —  the  sweet  songs, 

Simple  and  beautiful  as  Truth  and  Nature, 

Of  him  whose  whitened  locks  on  Rydal  Mount 

Are  lifted  yet  by  morning  breezes  blowing 

From  the  green  hills,  immortal  in  his  lays. 

And  for  myself,  obedient  to  her  wish, 

I  searched  our  landlord's  proffered  library : 

A  well-thumbed  Bunyan,  with  its  nice  wood  pictures 


6          THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 

Of  scaly  fiends  and  angels  not  unlike  them  — 
Watts1  unmelodious  psalms  —  Astrology's 
Last  home,  a  musty  file  of  Almanacs, 
And  an  old  chronicle  of  border  wars 
And  Indian  history.     And,  as  I  read 
A  story  of  the  marriage  of  the  Chief 
Of  Saugus  to  the  dusky  Weetamoo, 
Daughter  of  Passaconaway,  who  dwelt 
In  the  old  time  upon  Merrimack, 
Our  fair  one,  in  the  playful  exercise 
Of  her  prerogative  —  the  right  divine 
Of  youth  and  beauty,  —  bade  us  versify 
The  legend,  and  with  ready  pencil  sketched 
Its  plan  and  outlines,  laughingly  assigning 
To  each  his  part,  and  barring  our  excuses 
With  absolute  will.     So,  like  the  cavaliers 
Whose  voices  still  are  heard  in  the  Romance 
Of  silver-tongued  Boccaccio,  on  the  banks 
Of  Arno,  with  soft  tales  of  love  beguiling 
The  ear  of  languid  beauty,  plague-exiled 
From  stately  Florence,  we  rehearsed  our  rhymes 
To  their  fair  auditor,  and  shared  by  turns 
Her  kind  approval  and  her  playful  censure. 

It  may  be  that  these  fragments  owe  alone 
To  the  fair  setting  of  their  circumstances  — 
The  associations  of  time,  scene  and  audience  — 
Their  place  amid  the  pictures  which  fill  up 
The  chambers  of  my  memory.     Yet  I  trust 
That  some,  who  sigh,  while  wandering  in  thought, 
Pilgrims  of  Romance  o'er  the  olden  world, 
That  our  broad  land  —  our  sea-like  lakes,  and  moun 
tains 


THE  BRIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK. 

Piled  .to  the  clouds,  —  our  rivers  overhung 

By  forests  which  have  known  no  other  change 

For  ages,  than  the  budding  and  the  fall 

Of  leaves  —  our  valleys  lovelier  than  those 

Which  the  old  poets  sang  of— should  but  figure 

On  the  apocryphal  chart  of  speculation 

As  pastures,  wood-lots,  mill-sites,  with  the  privileges^ 

Rights  and  appurtenances,  which  make  up 

A  Yankee  Paradise  — unsung,  unknown, 

To  beautiful  tradition  ;  even  their  names, 

Whose  melody  yet  lingers  like  the  last 

Vibration  of  the  red  man's  requiem, 

Exchanged  for  syllables  significant 

Of  cotton-mill  and  rail-car,  —  will  look  kindly 

Upon  this  effort  to  call  up  the  ghost 

Of  our  dim  Past,  and  listen  with  pleased  ear 

To  the  responses  of  the  questioned  Shade  : 

I.  —  THE  MERRIMACK. 

OH,   child   of    that   white-crested    mountain    whose 

springs 

Gush  forth  in  the  shade  of  the  cliff-eagle's  wings, 
Down  whose  slopes  to  the  lowlands  thy  wild  waters 

shine, 
Leaping  gray   walls    of  rock,    flashing   through    the 

dwarf  pine. 

From  that   cloud-curtained   cradle   so   cold  and    so 

lone, 
From    the   arms    of    that   wintry-locked    mother    of 

stone, 


8  THE   BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK. 

By  hills  hung  with  forests,  through  vales  wide  and 

free, 
Thy  mountain-born  brightness  glanced  down  to  the 

sea! 

No  bridge  arched  thy  waters  save  that  where  the 

trees 
Stretched  their  long  arms  above  thee  and  kissed  in 

the  breeze : 

No  sound  save  the  lapse  of  the  waves  on  thy  shores, 
The  plunging  of  otters,  the  light  dip  of  oars. 

Green-tufted,  oak-shaded,  by  Amoskeag's  fall 
Thy  twin  Uncanoonucs  rose  stately  and  tall, 
Thy  Nashua  meadows  lay  green  and  unshorn, 
And  the  hills  of  Pentucket  were  tasselled  with  corn. 

But  thy  Pennacook  valley  was  fairer  than  these, 
And  greener  its  grasses  and  taller  its  trees, 
Ere  the  sound  of  an  axe  in  the  forest  had  rung, 
Or  the  mower  his  scythe  in  the  meadows  had  swung. 

In  their  sheltered  repose  looking  out  from  the  wood 
The  bark-builded  wigwams  of  Pennacook  stood, 
There    glided    the    corn-dance  —  the    Council    fire 

shone, 
And  against  the  red  war-post  the  hatchet  was  thrown. 

There  the  old  smoked  in  silence  their  pipes,  and  the 

young 
To  the  pike  and   the  white  perch  their  baited  lines 

flung ; 


'/'///•;   A'AV/U/    OF  PENNACOOK*  9 

There  the  boy  shaped  his  arrows,  and  there  the  shy 

maid 
Wove  her  many-lined   baskets  and  bright  wampum 

braid. 

Oh,  Stream  of  the  Mountains!  if  answer  of  thine 
Could  rise  from  thy  waters  to  question  of  mine, 
Methinks  through  the  din  of  thy  thronged  banks  a 

moan 
Of  sorrow  would  swell  for  the  days  which  have  gone. 

Not  for  thee  the  dull  jar  of  the  loom  and  the  wheel, 
The  gliding  of  shuttles,  the  ringing  of  steel ; 
But  that  old  voice  of  waters,  of  bird  and  of  breeze, 
The  dip  of  the  wild-fowl,  the  rustling  of  trees! 

II.  — THE   BASHABA.1 

LIFT  we  the  twilight  curtains  of  the  Past, 
And  turning  from  familiar  sight  and  sound 

Sadly  and  full  of  reverence  let  us  cast 
A  glance  upon  Tradition's  shadowy  ground, 

Led  by  the  few  pale  lights,  which,  glimmering  round 
That  dim,  strange  land  of  Eld,  seem  dying  fast ; 

1  This  was  the  name  which  the  Indians  of  New  England 
gave  to  two  or  three  of  their  principal  chiefs,  to  whom  all  their 
inferior  sagamores  acknowledged  allegiance.  Passaconaway 
seems  to  have  been  one  of  these  chiefs.  His  residence  was  at 
Pennacook.  —  Mass.  Hist.  Coll.,  vol.  iii.,  pp.  21,  22.  "  He  was 
regarded,"  says  Hubbard,  "  as  a  great  sorcerer,  and  his  fame 
was  widely  spread.  It  was  said  of  him  that  he  could  cause  a 
green  leaf  to  grow  in  winter,  trees  to  dance,  water  to  burn,  etc. 


10  THE   BRIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK. 

And  that  which  history  gives  not  to  the  eye, 

The  faded  coloring  of  Time's  tapestry, 

Let  Fancy,  with  her  dream-dipped  brush  supply. 

Roof  of  bark  and  walls  of  pine, 

Through  whose  chinks  the  sunbeams  shine, 

Tracing  many  a  golden  line 

On  the  ample  floor  within  ; 
Where  upon  that  earth-floor  stark, 
Lay  the  gaudy  mats  of  bark, 
With  the  bear's  hide,  rough  and  dark, 

And  the  red-deer's  skin. 

Window-tracery,  small  and  slight, 
Woven  of  the  willow  white, 
Lent  a  dimly-checkered  light, 

And  the  night-stars  glimmered  down, 
Where  the  lodge-fire's  heavy  smoke, 
Slowly  through  an  opening  broke, 
In  the  low  roof,  ribbed  with  oak, 

Sheathed  with  hemlock  brown. 

Gloomed  behind  the  changeless  shade, 
By  the  solemn  pine-wood  made  ; 
Through  the  rugged  palisade, 
In  the  open  fore-ground  planted, 

He  was,  undoubtedly,  one  of  those  shrewd  and  powerful  men 
whose  achievements  are  always  regarded  by  a  barbarous  people 
as  the  result  of  supernatural  aid.  The  Indians  gave  to  such 
the  names  of  Powahs  or  Panisees." 

"  The  Panisees  are  men  of  great  courage  and  wisdom,  and 
to  these  the  Devill  appeareth  more  familiarly  than  to  others." 
—  Winslow's  Relation. 


Tin-:  />A7/),//    OF  PENNACOOK.         \  I 

Glimpses  came  of  rowers  rowing. 
Stir  of  leaves  and  wild  flowers  blowing, 
Steel-like  gleams  of  water  (lowing, 
In  the  sun-light  slanted. 

Here  the  mighty  Bashaba, 

Held  his  long-unquestioned  sway, 

From  the  White  Hills,  far  away, 

To  the  great  sea's  sounding  shore 
Chief  of  chiefs,  his  regal  word 
All  the  river  Sachems  heard, 
At  his  call  the  war-dance  stirred, 

Or  was  still  once  more. 

There  his  spoils  of  chase  and  war, 
Jaw  of  wolf  and  black  bear's  paw, 
Panther's  skin  and  eagle's  claw, 

Lay  beside  his  axe  and  bow ; 
And,  adown  the  roof-pole  hung, 
Loosely  on  a  snake-skin  strung, 
In  the  smoke  his  scalp-locks  swung 

Grimly  to  and  fro. 

Nightly  down  the  river  going, 
Swifter  was  the  hunter's  rowing, 
When  he  saw  that  lodge-fire  glowing 

O'er  the  waters  still  and  red ; 
And  the  squaw's  dark  eye  burned  brighter, 
And  she  drew  her  blanket  tighter, 
As,  with  quicker  step  and  lighter, 

From  that  door  she  rled. 


12  THE   BRIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK. 

For  that  chief  had  magic  skill, 
And  a  Panisee's  dark  will, 
Over  powers  of  good  and  ill, 

Powers  which  bless  and  powers  which  ban 
Wizard  lord  of  Pennacook, 
Chiefs  upon  their  war-path  shook, 
When  they  met  the  steady  look 

Of  that  wise  dark  man. 

Tales  of  him  the  gray  squaw  told, 
When  the  winter  night-wind  cold 
Pierced  her  blanket's  thickest  fold. 

And  the  fire  burned  low  and  small, 
Till  the  very  child  a-bed, 
Drew  its  bear-skin  over  head, 
Shrinking  from  the  pale  lights  shed 

On  the  trembling  wall. 

All  the  subtle  spirits  hiding 
Under  earth  or  wave,  abiding 
In  the  caverned  rock,  or  riding 

Misty  clouds  or  morning  breeze  ; 
Every  dark  intelligence, 
Secret  soul,  and  influence 
Of  all  things  which  outward  sense 

Feels,  or  hears  or  sees, — 

These  the  wizard's  skill  confessed. 
At  his  bidding  banned  or  blessed, 
Stormful  woke  or  lulled  to  rest 

Wind  and  cloud,  and  fire  and  flood ; 


THI-:  HKIPAI.  <}/-'  n-.xxAcooK. 

Burned  for  him  the  drifted  snow, 
Bade  through  ice  fresh  lilies  blow, 
And  the  leaves  of  summer  grow 
Over  winter's  wood! 

Not  untrue  that  tale  of  old ! 
Now,  as  then,  the  wise  and  bold 
All  the  powers  of  Nature  hold 

Subject  to  their  kingly  will ; 
From  the  wondering  crowds  ashore, 
Treading  life's  wild  waters  o'er, 
As  upon  a  marble  floor, 

Moves  the  strong  man  still. 

Still,  to  such,  life's  elements 
With  their  sterner  laws  dispense, 
And  the  chain  of  consequence 

Broken  in  their  pathway  lies  ; 
Time  and  change  their  vassals  making. 
Flowers  from  icy  pillows  waking, 
Tresses  of  the  sunrise  shaking 

Over  midnight  skies. 

Still,  to  earnest  souls,  the  sun 
Rests  on  towered  Gibeon, 
And  the  moon  of  Ajalon 

Lights  the  battle-grounds  of  life  ; 
To  his  aid  the  strong  reverses, 
Hidden  powers  and  giant  forces, 
And  the  high  stars  in  their  courses 

Mingle  in  his  strife! 


14  THE  BRIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK. 


III.  — THE  DAUGHTER. 

THE  soot-black  brows  of  men  —  the  yell 
Of  women  thronging  round  the  bed  — 

The  tinkling  charm  of  ring  and  shell  — 
The  Powah  whispering  o'er  the  dead!  — 

All  these  the  Sachem's  home  had  known, 
When,  on  her  journey  long  and  wild 

To  the  dim  World  of  Souls,  alone, 
In  her  young  beauty  passed  the  mother  of  his  child. 

Three  bow-shots  from  the  Sachem's  dwelling 

O 

They  laid  her  in  the  walnut  shade. 
Where  a  green  hillock  gently  swelling 

Her  fitting  mound  of  burial  made. 
There  trailed  the  vine  in  Summer  hours  — 

The  tree-perched  squirrel  dropped  his  shell  — 
On  velvet  moss  and  pale-hued  flowers, 
Woven  with  leaf  and  spray,  the  softened  sunshine 
fell! 

• 

The  Indian's  heart  is  hard  and  cold  — 

It  closes  darkly  o'er  its  care, 
And,  formed  in  Nature's  sternest  mould. 

Is  slow  to  feel,  and  strong  to  bear. 
The  war-paint  on  the  Sachem's  face, 

Unwet  with  tears,  shone  fierce  and  red, 
And,  still  in  battle  or  in  chase, 

Dry  leaf  and  snow-rime  crisped  beneath  his  foremost 
tread. 


THE  BRIDAL    Ol<~  PEXXACOOh'.  15 

Yet,  when  her  name  was  heard  no  more, 
And  when  the  robe  her  mother  gave, 

And  small,  light  moccasin  she  wore, 
Had  slowly  wasted  on  her  grave, 

Unmarked  of  him  the  dark  maids  sped 
Their  sunset  dance  and  moon-lit  play ; 

No  other  shared  his  lonely  bed, 
No  other  fair  young  head  upon  his  bosom  lay. 


A  lone,  stern  man.     Yet,  as  sometimes 

The  tempest-smitten  tree  receives 
From  one  small  root  the  sap  which  climbs 
Its  topmost  spray  and  crowning  leaves, 
So  from  his  child  the  Sachem  drew 
A  life  of  Love  and  Hope,  and  felt 
His  cold  and  rugged  nature  through 
The  softness  and  the  warmth  of  her  young  being 
melt. 

A  laugh  which  in  the  woodland  rang 
Bemocking  April's  gladdest  bird  — 
A  light  and  graceful  form  which  sprang 

To  meet  him  when  his  step  was  heard  — 
Eyes  by  his  lodge-fire  flashing  dark, 

Small  fingers  stringing  bead  and  shell 
Or  weaving  mats  of  bright-hued  bark, — 
With  these  the  household-god  1  had  graced  his  wig 
wam  well. 


1  "  The  Indians  "  says  Roger  Williams,  "  have  a  god  whom 
they  call  Wetuomamt,  who  presides  over  the  household." 


1 6  THE   BRIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK. 

Child  of  the  forest !  —  strong  and  free, 
Slight-robed,  with  loosely  flowing  hair, 

She  swam  the  lake  or  climbed  the  tree, 
Or  struck  the  flying  bird  in  air. 

O'er  the  heaped  drifts  of  Winter's  moon 
Her  snow-shoes  tracked  the  hunter's  way; 

And  dazzling  in  the  Summer  noon 
The  blade  of  her  light  oar  threw  off  its  shower  of  spray ! 

Unknown  to  her  the  rigid  rule, 

The  dull  restraint,  the  chiding  frown, 
The  weary  torture  of  the  school, 

The  taming  of  wild  nature  down. 
Her  only  lore,  the  legends  told 

Around  the  hunter's  fire  at  night ; 
Stars  rose  and  set,  and  seasons  rolled, 
Flowers  bloomed  and  snow-flakes  fell,  unquestioned 
in  her  sight. 

Unknown  to  her  the  subtle  skill 

With  which  the  artist-eye  can  trace 
In  rock  and  tree  and  lake  and  hill 

The  outlines  of  divinest  grace  ; 
Unknown  the  fine  soul's  keen  unrest 

Which  sees,  admires,  yet  yearns  alway ; 
Too  closely  on  her  mother's  breast 
To  note  her  smiles  of  love  the  child  of  Nature  lay! 

It  is  enough  for  such  to  be 

Of  common,  natural  things  a  part, 
To  feel  with  bird  and  stream  and  tree 

The  pulses  of  the  same  great  heart : 


Till-.    URIDAI.    01-   rKNNACOOK.  17 

But  we,  from  Nature  long  exiled 

In  our  cold  homes  of  Art  and  Thought, 
Grieve  like  the  stranger-tended  child, 
Which  seeks  its  mother's  arms,  and  sees   but  feels 
them  not. 

The  garden  rose  may  richly  bloom 

In  cultured  soil  and  genial  air. 
To  cloud  the  light  of  Fashion's  room 

Or  droop  in  Beauty's  midnight  hair ; 
In  lonelier  grace,  to  sun  and  dew 

The  sweet-briar  on  the  hill-side  shows 
Its  single  leaf  and  fainter  hue, 
Untrained  and  wildly  free,  yet  still  a  sister  rose! 

Thus  o'er  the  heart  of  Weetamoo 
Their  mingling  shades  of  joy  and  ill 

The  instincts  of  her  nature  threw,— 
The  savage  was  a  woman  still. 

Midst  outlines  dim  of  maiden  schemes, 
Heart-colored  prophecies  of  life, 

Rose  on  the  ground  of  her  young  dreams 
The  light  of  a  new  home  — the  lover  and  the  wife! 


IV. —THE  WEDDING. 

COOL  and  dark  fell  the  Autumn  night, 
But  the  Bashaba's  wigwam  glowed  with  light, 
For  down  from  its  roof  by  green  withes  hung 
Flaring  and  smoking  the  pine-knots  swung. 


1 8  THE  BRIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK. 

And  along  the  river  great  wood  fires 
Shot  into  the  night  their  long  red  spires, 
'Showing  behind  the  tall,  dark  wood 
Flashing  before  on  the  sweeping  flood : 

In  the  changeful  wind,  with  shimmer  and  shade, 
Now  high,  now  low,  that  fire-light  played, 
On  tree-leaves  wet  with  evening  dews, 
On  gliding  water  and  still  canoes. 

The  trapper  that  night  on  Turee's  brook 
And  the  weary  fisher  on  Contoocook 
Saw  over  the  marshes  and  through  the  pine 
And  down  on  the  river  the  dance-lights  shine. 

X 

For  the  Saugus  Sachem  had  come  to  woo 
The  Bashaba's  daughter  Weetamoo, 
And  laid  at  her  father's  feet  that  night 
His  softest  furs  and  wampum  white. 

From  the  Crystal  Hills  to  the  far  South  East 
The  river  Sagamores  came  to  the  feast ; 
And  chiefs  whose  homes  the  sea-winds  shook, 
Sat  down  on  the  mats  of  Pennacook. 

They  came  from  Sunapee's  shore  of  rock, 
From  the  snowy  sources  of  Snooganock, 
And  from  rough  Cob's  whose  thick  woods  shake 
Their  pine-cones  in  Umbagog  lake. 

From  Ainmonoosuck1s  mountain  pass 
Wild  as  his  home  came  Chepewass ; 


THE  BRIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK.  19 

And  the  Keenomps  of  the  hills  which  throw 
Their  shade  on  the  Smile  of  Manito. 

With  pipes  of  peace  and  bows  unstrung, 
Glowing  with  paint  came  old  and  young, 
In  wampum  and  furs  and  feathers  arrayed 
To  the  dance  and  feast  the  Bashaba  made. 

Bird  of  the  air  and  beast  of  the  field, 
All  which  the  woods  and  waters  yield 
On  dishes  of  birch  and  hemlock  piled 
Garnished  and  graced  that  banquet  wild. 

Steaks  of  the  brown  bear  fat  and  large 
From  the  rocky  slopes  of  the  Kearsarge ; 
Delicate  trout  from  Babboosuck  brook, 
And  salmon  speard  in  the  Contoocook ; 

Squirrels  which  fed  where  nuts  fell  thick 
In  the  gravelly  bed  of  the  Otternic, 
And  small  wild  hens  in  reed-snares  caught 
From  the  banks  of  Sondagardee  brought ; 

Pike  and  perch  from  the  Suncook  taken, 
Nuts  from  the  trees  of  the  Black  Hills  shaken, 
Cranberries  picked  in  the  Squamscot  bog, 
And  grapes  from  the  vines  of  Piscataquog : 

And,  drawn  from  that  great  stone  vase  which  stands 
In  the  river  scooped  by  a  spirit's  hands,1 

1  There  are  rocks  in  the  River  at  the  Falls  of  Amoskeag,  in 
the  cavities  of  which,  tradition  says,  the  Indians  formerly  stored 
and  concealed  their  corn. 


20  THE  BRIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK. 

Garnished  with  spoons  of  shell  and  horn, 
Stood  the  birchen  dishes  of  smoking  corn. 

Thus  bird  of  the  air  and  beast  of  the  field, 
All  which  the  woods  and  the  waters  yield, 
Furnished  in  that  olden  day 
The  bridal  feast  of  the  Bashaba. 

And  merrily  when  that  feast  was  done 
On  the  fire-lit  green  the  dance  begun, 
With  squaws1  shrill  stave,  and  deeper  hum 
Of  old  men  beating  the  Indian  drum. 

Painted  and  plumed,  with  scalp  locks  flowing, 
And  red  arms  tossing  and  black  eyes  glowing, 
Now  in  the  light  and  now  in  the  shade 
Around  the  fires  the  dancers  played. 

The  step  was  quicker,  the  song  more  shrill, 
And  the  beat  of  the  small  drums  louder  still 
Whenever  within  the  circle  drew 
The  Saugus  Sachem  and  Weetamoo. 

The  moons  of  forty  winters  had  shed 
Their  snow  upon  that  chieftain's  head, 
And  toil  and  care,  and  battle's  chance 
Had  sramed  his  hard  dark  countenance. 

A  fawn  beside  the  bison  grim  — 
Why  turns  the  bride's  fond  eye  on  him, 
In  whose  cold  look  is  naught  beside 
The  triumph  of  a  sullen  pride? 


THE  BRIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK.  21 

Ask  why  the  graceful  grape  entwines 
The  rough  oak  with  her  arm  of  vines  ; 
And  why  the  gray  rock's  rugged  cheek 
The  soft  lips  of  the  mosses  seek  : 

Why,  \\ith  wise  instinct.  Nature  seems 
To  harmonize  her  wide  extremes, 
Linking  the  stronger  with  the  weak, 
The  haughty  with  the  soft  and  meek! 


V.  — THE  NEW  HOME. 

A  WILD  and  broken  landscape,  spiked  with  firs, 
Roughening  the  bleak  horizon's  northern  edge, 

Steep,  cavernous  hill-side,  where  black  hemlock  spurs 
And  sharp,  gray  splinters  of  the  wind-swept  ledge 

Pierced  the  thin-glaz'd  ice,  or  bristling  rose, 

Where  the  cold  rim  of  the  sky  sunk  down  upon  the 
snows. 

And  eastward  cold,  wide  marshes  stretched  away. 
Dull,  dreary  flats  without  a  bush  or  tree, 

O'er-crossed  by  icy  creeks,  where  twice  a  day 
(iurgled  the  waters  of  th6  moon-struck  sea; 

And  faint  with  distance  came  the  stifled  roar, 

The  melancholy  lapse  of  waves  on  that  low  shore. 

No  cheerful  village  with  its  mingling  smokes, 
No  laugh  of  children  wrestling  in  the  snow, 

No  camp-fire  bla/ing  through  the  hill-side  oaks, 
No  fishers  kneeling  on  the  ice  below  ; 


22  THE   BRIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK. 

Yet  midst  all  desolate  things  of  sound  and  view, 
Through  the  long  winter  moons   smiled   dark-eyed 
Weetamoo. 

Her  heart  had  found  a  home  ;  and  freshly  all 

Its  beautiful  affections  overgrew 
Their  rugged  prop.     As  o'er  some  granite  wall 

Soft  vine  leaves  open  to  the  moistening  dew 
And  warm  bright  sun,  the  love  of  that  young  wife 
Found  on  a  hard  cold  breast  the  dew  and  warmth  of 
life. 

The  steep  bleak  hills,  the  melancholy  shore, 
The  long  dead  level  of  the  marsh  between, 

A  coloring  of  unreal  beauty  wore 

Through  the  soft  golden  mist  of  young  love  seen, 

For  o'er  those  hills  and  from  that  dreary  plain, 

Nightly  she  welcomed  home  her  hunter  chief  again. 

No  warmth  of  heart,  no  passionate  burst  of  feeling 
Repaid  her  welcoming  smile,  and  parting  kiss, 

No  fond  and  playful  dalliance  half  concealing, 
Under  the  guise  of  mirth,  its  tenderness  ; 

But,  in  their  stead,  the  warriorns  settled  pride, 

And  vanity's  pleased  smile  with  homage  satisfied. 

Enough  for  Weetamoo,  that  she  alone 
Sat  on  his  mat  and  slumbered  at  his  side ; 

That  he  whose  fame  to  her  young  ear  had  flown, 
Now  looked  upon  her  proudly  as  his  bride ; 

That  he  whose  name  the  Mohawk  trembling  heard 

Vouchsafed  to  her  at  times  a  kindly  look  or  word. 


THE   BRIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK.  23 

For  she  had  learned  the  maxims  of  her  race, 
Which  teach  the  woman  to  become  a  slave 

And  feel  herself  the  pardonless  disgrace 

Of  love's  fond  weakness  in  the  wise  and  brave  — 

The  scandal  and  the  shame  which  they  incur, 

Who  give  to  woman  all  which  man  requires  of  her. 

So  passed  the  winter  moons.     The  sun  at  last 
Broke  link  by  link  the  frost  chain  of  the  rills, 

And  the  warm  breathings  of  the  southwest  passed 
Over  the  hoar  rime  of  the  Saugus  hills, 

The  gray  and  desolate  marsh  grew  green  once  more, 

And  the  birch-tree's  tremulous  shade  fell  round  the 
Sachem's  door. 

Then  from  far  Pennacook  swift  runners  came, 
With  gift  and  greeting  for  the  Saugus  chief; 

Beseeching  him  in  the  great  Sachem's  name, 
That,  with  the  coming  of  the  flower  and  leaf, 

The  song  of  birds,  the  warm  breeze  and  the  rain, 

Young  Weetamoo  might  greet  her  lonely  sire  again. 

And  Winnepurkit  called  his  chiefs  together, 
And  a  grave  council  in  his  wigwam  met, 

Solemn  and  brief  in  words,  considering  whether 
The  rigid  rules  of  forest  etiquette 

Permitted  Weetamoo  once  more  to  look 

Upon  her  father's  face  and  green-banked  Pennacook. 

With  interludes  of  pipe-smoke  and  strong  water, 
The  forest  sages  pondered,  and  at  length, 


24  THE  BRIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK, 

Concluded  in  a  body  to  escort  her 

Up  to  her  fathers  home  of  pride  and  strength, 
Impressing  thus  on  Pennacook  a  sense 
Of  Winnepurkit's  power  and  regal  consequence. 

So  through  old  woods  which  Aukeetamit's  l  hand 
A  soft  and  many-shaded  greenness  lent, 

Over  high  breezy  hills,  and  meadow  land 

Yellow  with  flowers,  the  wild  procession  went, 

Till  rolling  clown  its  wooded  banks  between, 

A  broad,  clear,  mountain  stream,  the  Merrimack  was 
seen. 

The  hunter  leaning  on  his  bow  undrawn  — 
The  fisher  lounging  on  the  pebbled  shores, 

Squaws  in  the  clearing  dropping  the  seed-corn, 

Young  children  peering  through  the  wigwam  doors, 

Saw  with  delight,  surrounded  by  her  train 

Of  painted  Saugus  braves,  their  Weetamoo  again. 

VI.  —  AT  PENNACOOK. 

THE  hills  are  dearest  which  our  childish  feet 

Have  climbed  the  earliest ;    and  the  streams  most 

sweet, 

Are  ever  those  at  which  our  young  lips  drank, 
Stooped  to  their  waters  o'er  the  grassy  bank : 

Midst  the  cold  dreary  sea-watch,  Home's  hearth-light 
Shines  round  the   helmsman  plunging  through   the 

night ; 
l  The  Spring  God.  —  See  Roger  Williams's  Key,  etc. 


A///-;    URIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK.  2$ 

And  still,  with  inward  eye,  the  traveller  sees 
In  close,  dark,  stranger  streets  his  native  trees. 

The  home-sick  dreamer's  brow  is  nightly  fanned 
By  breezes  whispering  of  his  native  land, 
And,  on  the  stranger's  dim  and  dying  eye, 
The  soft,  sweet  pictures  of  his  childhood  lie! 

Joy  then  for  Weetamoo,  to  sit  once  more 
A  child  upon  her  fathers  wigwam  floor! 
Once  more  with  her  old  fondness  to  beguile 
From  his  cold  eye  the  strange  light  of  a  smile. 

The  long  bright  days  of  Summer  swiftly  passed, 
The  dry  leaves  whirled  in  Autumn's  rising  blast, 
And  evening  cloud  and  whitening  sunrise  rime 
Told  of  the  coming  of  the  winter  time. 

But  vainly  looked,  the  while,  young  Weetamoo, 
Down  the  dark  river  for  her  chiefs  canoe  ; 
No  dusky  messenger  from  Saugus  brought 
The  grateful  tidings  which  the  young  wife  sought 

At  length  a  runner,  from  her  father  sent 
To  Winnepurkit's  sea-cooled  wigwam  went : 
"Eagle  of  Saugus,  — in  the  woods  the  dove 
Mourns  for  the  shelter  of  thy  wings  of  love." 

But  the  dark  chief  of  Saugus  turned  aside 
In  the  grim  anger  of  hard-hearted  pride  ; 
"  I  bore  her  as  became  a  chieftain's  daughter, 
Up  to  her  home  beside  the  gliding  water. 


26  THE   BRIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK. 

"  If  now  no  more  a  mat  for  her  is  found 

Of  all  which  line  her  father's  wigwam  round, 

Let  Pennacook  call  out  his  warrior  train 

And  send  her  back  with  wampum  gifts  again." 

The  baffled  runner  turned  upon  his  track, 
Bearing  the  words  of  Winnepurkit  back. 
u  Dog  of  the  Marsh,"  cried  Pennacook,  "  no  more 
Shall  child  of  mine  sit  on  his  wigwam  floor. 

"  Go  —  let  him  seek  some  meaner  squaw  to  spread 
The  stolen  bear-skin  of  his  beggar's  bed  : 
Son  of  a  fish-hawk!  —  let  him  dig  his  clams 
For  some  vile  daughter  of  the  Agawams, 

"  Or  coward  Nipmucks !  —  may  his  scalp  dry  black 
In  Mohawk  smoke,  before  I  send  her  back." 
He  shook  his  clenched  hand  towards  the  ocean  wave 
While  hoarse  assent  his  listening  council  gave. 

Alas  poor  bride  !  —  can  thy  grim  sire  impart 
His  iron  hardness  to  thy  woman's  heart? 
Or  cold  self-torturing  pride  like  his  atone 
For  love  denied  and  life's  warm  beauty  flown  ? 

On  Autumn's  gray  and  mournful  grave  the  snow 
Hung  its  white  wreaths  ;  with  stifled  voice  and  low 
The  river  crept,  by  one  vast  bridge  o'ercrossed, 
Built  by  the  hoar-locked  artisan  of  Frost. 

And  many  a  Moon  in  beauty  newly  born 
Pierced  the  red  sunset  with  her  silver  horn, 


THE   BRIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK.  2J 

Or,  from  the  east  across  her  azure  field. 

Rolled  the  wide  brightness  of  her  full-orbed  shield. 

Yet  Winnepurkit  came  not  —  on  the  mat 
Of  the  scorned  wife  her  dusky  rival  sat, 
And  he,  the  while,  in  Western  woods  afar  — 
Urged  the  long  chase,  or  trod  the  path  of  war. 

Dry  up  thy  tears,  young  daughter  of  a  chief ! 
Waste  not  on  him  the  sacredness  of  grief; 
li«i  the  fierce  spirit  of  thy  sire  thine  own, 
His  lips  of  scorning,  and  his  heart  of  stone. 

What  heeds  the  warrior  of  a  hundred  fights, 
The  storm-worn  watcher  through  long  hunting  nights, 
Cold,  crafty,  proud,  of  woman's  weak  distress, 
Her  home-bound  grief  and  pining  loneliness? 


VII.— THE  DEPARTURE. 

THE  wild  March  rains  had  fallen  fast  and  long 
The  snowy  mountains  of  the  North  among, 
Making  each  vale  a  water-course  —  each  hill 
Bright  with  the  cascade  of  some  new-made  rill. 

Gnawed  by  the  sunbeams,  softened  by  the  rain, 
Heaved  underneath  by  the  swollen  current's  strain. 
The  ice-bridge  yielded,  and  the  Merrimack 
Bore  the  huge  ruin  crashing  down  its  track. 


28  THE  BRIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK. 

On  that  strong  turbid  water,  a  small  boat 
Guided  by  one  weak  hand  was  seen  to  float, 
Evil  the  fate  which  loosed  it  from  the  shore, 
Too  early  voyager  with  too  frail  an  oar  ! 

Down  the  vexed  centre  of  that  rushing  tide, 
The  thick  huge  ice-blocks  threatening  either  side, 
The  foam-white  rocks  of  Amoskeag  in  view, 
With  arrowy  swiftness  sped  that  light  canoe. 

The  trapper,  moistening  his  moose's  meat 

On  the  wet  bank  by  Uncanoonuc's  feet, 

Saw  the  swift  boat  flash  do\vn  the  troubled  stream  — 

Slept  he,  or  waked  he  ?  —  was  it  truth  or  dream  ? 

The  straining  eye  bent  fearfully  before, 

The  small  hand  clenching  on  the  useless  oar, 

The  bead-wrought  blanket  trailing  o'er  the  water  — 

He  knew  them  all  —  wo  for  the  Sachem's  daughter! 

Sick  and  aweary  of  her  lonely  life, 
Heedless  of  peril  the  still  faithful  wife 
Had  left  her  mother's  grave,  her  father's  door, 
To  seek  the  wigwam  of  her  chief  once  more. 

Down  the  white  rapids  like  a  sear  leaf  whirled, 
On  the  sharp  rocks  and  piled  up  ices  hurled, 
Empty  and  broken,  circled  the  canoe 
In  the  vexed  pool  below  —  but,  where  was  Weetamoo ? 


THE  BRIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK.          29 


VIII.  — SONG  OF  INDIAN  WOMEN. 

A 

THE  Dark  eye  has  left  us, 

The  Spring-bird  has  flown, 
On  the  pathway  of  spirits 

She  wanders  alone. 

The  song  of  the  wood-clove  has  died  on  our  shore 
Mat  wonck  kunna-monee ! l  —  We  hear  it  no  more  ! 

Oh,  dark  water  Spirit ! 
We  cast  on  thy  wave 
These  furs  which  may  never 

Hang  over  her  grave  ; 

Bear  down  to  the  lost  one  the  robes  that  she  wore ; 
Mat  wonck  kunna-monee !  —  We  see  her  no  more  ! 

Ot  the  strange  land  she  walks  in 

No  Powah  has  told  : 
It  may  burn  with  the  sunshine, 

Or  freeze  with  the  cold. 

Let  us  give  to  our  lost  one  the  robes  that  she  wore, 
Mat  wonck  kunna-monee !  —  We  see  her  no  more  ! 

The  path  she  is  treading 

Shall  soon  be  our  own ; 
Each  gliding  in  shadow 
Unseen  and  alone  !  — 

In  vain  shall  we  call  on  the  souls  gone  before  — 
Mat  wonck  kunna-monee !  —  They  hear  us  no  more  ! 

i  "  Mat  wonck  kunna-monee."    We  shall  see  thee  or  her 
no  more.—  Vide  Roger  Williams's  Key  to  the  Indian  Language. 


30  THE   BRIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK. 

Oh  mighty  Sowanna  ! 1 
Thy  gateways  unfold, 
From  the  wigwam  of  sunset 

Lift  curtains  of  gold  ! 

Take  home  the  poor  Spirit  whose  journey  is  o'er  — 
Mat  wonck  kunna  monee !  —  We  see  her  no  more  ! 

So  sang  the  Children  of  the  Leaves  beside 
The  broad,  dark  river's  coldly-flowing  tide, 
Now  low,  now  harsh,  with  sob-like  pause  and  swell 
On  the  high  wind  their  voices  rose  and  fell. 
Nature's  wild  music  —  sounds  of  wind-swept  trees, 
The  scream  of  birds,  the  wailing  of  the  breeze, 
The  roar  of  waters,  steady,  deep  and  strong, 
Mingled  and  murmured  in  that  farewell  song. 

i  "  The  Great  South  West  God."  — See  Roger  Williams's 
Observations,  etc. 


LEGENDARY. 


THE    MERRIMACK. 

["  The  Indians  speak  of  a  beautiful  river,  far  to  the  South, 
which  they  call  Merrimack."  —  SIEUR  DE  MONTS,  1604.] 

STREAM  of  my  fathers !  sweetly  still 
The  sunset  rays  thy  valley  fill ; 
Poured  slantwise  down  the  long  defile, 
Wave,  wood,  and  spire  beneath  them  smile. 
I  see  the  winding  Powow  fold 
The  green  hill  in  its  belt  of  gold, 
And  following  down  its  wavy  line, 
Its  sparkling  waters  blend  with  thine. 
There's  not  a  tree  upon  thy  side, 
Nor  rock,  which  thy  returning  tide 
As  yet  hath  left  abrupt  and  stark 
Above  thy  evening  water-mark  ; 
No  calm  cove  with  its  rocky  hem, 
No  isle  whose  emerald  swells  begem 
Thy  broad,  smooth  current ;  not  a  sail 
Bowed  to  the  freshening  ocean  gale  ; 
No  small  boat  with  its  busy  oars, 
Nor  gray  wall  sloping  to  thy  shores  ; 
Nor  farm-house  with  its  maple  shade, 
Or  rigid  poplar  colonnade, 


32  LEGENDARY. 

But  lies  distinct  and  full  in  sight, 

Beneath  this  gush  of  sunset  light. 

Centuries  ago,  that  harbor-bar, 

Stretching  its  length  of  foam  afar, 

And  Salisbury's  beach  of  shining  sand, 

And  yonder  island's  wave-smoothed  strand, 

Saw  the  adventurer's  tiny  sail 

Flit,  stooping  from  the  eastern  gale ;  l 

And  o'er  these  woods  and  waters  broke 

The  cheer  from  Britain's  hearts  of  oak, 

As  brightly  on  the  voyager's  eye, 

Weary  of  forest,  sea,  and  sky, 

Breaking  the  dull  continuous  wood, 

The  Merrimack  rolled  down  his  flood ; 

Mingling  that  clear  pellucid  brook, 

Which  channels  vast  Agioochook 

When  spring-time's  sun  and  shower  unlock 

The  frozen  fountains  of  the  rock, 

And  more  abundant  waters  given 

From  that  pure  lake,  "The  Smile  of  Heaven,"2 

Tributes  from  vale  and  mountain  side  — 

With  ocean's  dark,  eternal  tide! 

On  yonder  rocky  cape,  which  braves 
The  stormy  challenge  of  the  waves, 
Midst  tangled  vine  and  dwarfish  wood, 
The  hardy  Anglo-Saxon  stood, 

1  The  celebrated  Captain  Smith,  after  resigning  the  govern 
ment  of  the  colony  in  Virginia,  in  his  capacity  of"  Admiral  of 
New  England,"  made  a  careful  survey  of  the  coast  from  Penob- 
scot  to  Cape  Cod,  in  the  summer  of  1614. 

2  Lake  Winnipiseogee —  The  Smile  of  the  Great  Spirit  — 
*he  source  of  one  of  the  branches  of  the  Merrimack. 


'/•///•:  .]//•: A- A'/j/,/rA'.  33 

Planting  upon  the  topmost  crag 
The  staff  of  England's  battle-flag ; 
And,  while  from  out  its  heavy  fold 
Saint  George's  crimson  cross  unrolled, 
iMidst  roll  of  drum  and  trumpet  blare, 
And  weapons  brandishing  in  air, 
He  gave  to  that  lone  promontory 
The  sweetest  name  in  all  his  story ; l 
Of  her,  the  flower  of  Islam's  daughters, 
Whose  harems  look  on  Stamboul's  waters  — 
Who,  when  the  chance  of  war  had  bound 
The  Moslem  chain  his  limbs  around, 
Wreathed  o'er  with  silk  that  iron  chain, 
Soothed  with  her  smiles  his  hours  of  pain, 
And  fondly  to  her  youthful  slave 
A  dearer  gift  than  freedom  gave. 

But  look!  —  the  yellow  light  no  more 
Streams  down  on  wave  and  verdant  shore ', 
And  clearly  on  the  calm  air  swells 
The  twilight  voice  of  distant  bells. 
From  Ocean's  bosom,  white  and  thin 
The  mists  come  slowly  rolling  in  ; 
Hills,  woods,  the  river's  rocky  rim, 
Amidst  the  sea-like  vapor  swim, 
While  yonder  lonely  coast-light  set 
Within  its  wave-washed  minaret, 

i  Captain  Smith  gave  to  the  promontory,  now  called  Cape 
Ann,  the  name  of  Tragabizanda,  in  memory  of  his  young  and 
beautiful  mistress  of  that  name,  who,  while  he  was  a  captive  at 
Constantinople,  like  Uesdemona,  "  loved  him  for  the  dangers 
he  had  passed." 


34  LEGENDARY. 

Half  quenched,  a  beamless  star  and  pale; 
Shines  dimly  through  its  cloudy  veil! 

Home  of  my  fathers!  —  I  have  stood 
Where  Hudson  rolled  his  lordly  flood  : 
Seen  sunrise  rest  and  sunset  fade 
Along  his  frowning  Palisade  ; 
Looked  down  the  Appalachian  peak 
On  Juniata's  silver  streak  ; 
Have  seen  along  his  valley  gleam 
The  Mohawk's  softly  winding  stream  ; 
The  level  light  of  sunset  shine 
Through  broad  Potomac's  hem  of  pine  ; 
And  autumn's  rainbow-tinted  banner 
Hang  lightly  o'er  the  Susquehanna  ; 
Yet,  wheresoe'er  his  step  -might  be, 
Thy  wandering  child  looked  back  to  thee  I 
Heard  in  his  dreams  thy  river's  sound 
Of  murmuring  on  its  pebbly  bound, 
The  unforgotten  swell  and  roar 
Of  waves  on  thy  familiar  shore  ; 
And  saw,  amidst  the  curtained  gloom 
And  quiet  of  his  lonely  room, 
Thy  sunset  scenes  before  him  pass  ; 
As,  in  Agrippa's  magic  glass, 
The  loved  and  lost  arose  to  view, 
Remembered  groves  in  greenness  grew, 
Bathed  still  in  childhood's  morning  dew, 
Along  whose  bowers  of  beauty  swept 
Whatever  Memory's  mourners  wept, 
Sweet  faces,  which  the  charnel  kept. 
Young,  gentle  eyes,  which  long  had  slept ; 


THE  NORSEMEN.  35 

And  while  the  gazer  leaned  to  trace, 
More  near,  some  clear  familiar  face, 
He  wept  to  find  the  vision  flown  — 
A  phantom  and  a  dream  alone ! 


THE   NORSEMEN. 

[Some  three  or  four  years  since,  a  fragment  of  a  statue,  rudely 
chiselled  from  dark  gray  stone,  was  found  in  the  town  of  Brad 
ford,  on  the  Merrimack.  Its  origin  must  be  left  entirely  to 
conjecture.  The  fact  that  the  ancient  Northmen  visited  New 
England,  some  centuries  before  the  discoveries  of  Columbus, 
is  now  very  generally  admitted.] 

GIFT  from  the  cold  and  silent  Past ! 

A  relic  to  the  present  cast ; 

Left  on  the  ever-changing  strand 

Of  shifting  and  unstable  sand, 

Which  wastes  beneath  the  steady  chime 

And  beating  of  the  waves  of  Time  ! 

Who  from  its  bed  of  primal  rock 

First  wrenched  thy  dark,  unshapely  block  ? 

Whose  hand,  of  curious  skill  untaught, 

Thy  rude  and  savage  outline  wrought  ? 

The  waters  of  my  native  stream 
Are  glancing  in  the  sun's  warm  beam  : 
From  sail-urged  keel  and  flashing  oar 
The  circles  widen  to  its  shore  ; 
And  cultured  field  and  peopled  town 
Slope  to  its  willowed  margin  down. 


36  LEGENDARY. 

Yet,  while  this  morning  breeze  is  bringing 

The  mellow  sound  of  church-bells  ringing^ 

And  rolling  wheel,  and  rapid  jar 

Of  the  fire-winged  and  steedless  car, 

And  voices  from  the  wayside  near 

Come  quick  and  blended  on  my  ear, 

A  spell  is  in  this  old  gray  stone  — 

My  thoughts  are  with  the  Past  alone  ! 

A  change!  —  The  steepled  town  no  more 

Stretches  along  the  sail-thronged  shore  ; 

Like  palace-domes  in  sunset's  cloud, 

Fade  sun-gilt  spire  and  mansion  proud! 

Spectrally  rising  where  they  stood, 

I  see  the  old,  primeval  wood : 

Dark,  shadow-like,  on  either  hand 

I  see  its  solemn  waste  expand  : 

It  climbs  the  green  and  cultured  hill, 

It  arches  o'er  the  valley's  rill ; 

And  leans  from  cliff  and  crag,  to  throw 

Its  wild  arms  o'er  the  stream  below. 

Unchanged,  alone,  the  same  bright  river 

Flows  on,  as  it  will  flow  forever! 

I  listen,  and  I  hear  the  low 

Soft  ripple  where  its  waters  go ; 

I  hear  behind  the  panther's  cry, 

The  wild  bird's  scream  goes  thrilling  by, 

And  shyly  on  the  river's  brink 

The  deer  is  stooping  down  to  drink. 

But  hark !  —  from  wood  and  rock  flung  back. 
What  sound  comes  up  the  Merrimack? 
What  sea-worn  barks  are  those  which  throw 


THE  NORSEMEN.  37 

The  light  spray  from  rarh  rushing  prow? 
Have  they  not  in  the  North  Sea's  blast 
Bowed  to  the  waves  the  straining  mast? 
Their  frozen  sails  the  low,  pale  sun 
Of  Thule's  night  has  shone  upon  ; 
Flapped  by  the  sea-wind's  gusty  sweep 
Round  icy  drift,  and  headland  steep. 
Wild  Jutland's  wives  and  Lochlin's  daughters 
Have  watched  them  fading  o'er  the  waters, 
Lessening  through  driving  mist  and  spray, 
Like  white-winged  sea-birds  on  their  way! 
Onward  they  glide  —  and  now  I  view 
Their  iron-armed  and  stalwart  crew  ; 
Joy  glistens  in  each  wild  blue  eye, 
Turned  to  green  earth  and  summer  sky  : 
Each  broad,  seamed  breast  has  cast  aside 
Its  cumbering  vest  of  shaggy  hide  ; 
Bared  to  the  sun  and  soft  warm  air, 
Streams  back  the  Norsemen's  yellow  hair. 
I  see  the  gleam  of  axe  and  spear, 
The  sound  of  smitten  shields  I  hear, 
Keeping  a  harsh  and  fitting  time 
To  Saga's  chant,  and  Runic  rhyme ; 
Such  lays  as  Zetland's  Skald  has  sung, 
His  gray  and  naked  isles  among ; 
Or  muttered  low  at  midnight  hour 
Round  Odin's  mossy  stone  of  power. 
The  wolf  beneath  the  Arctic  moon 
Has  answered  to  that  startling  rune  ; 
The  Gaal  has  heard  its  stormy  swell. 
The  light  Frank  knows  its  summons  well ; 
lona's  sable-stoled  Culdee 


38  LEGENDARY. 

Has  heard  it  sounding  o'er  the  sea, 
And  swept  with  hoary  beard  and  hair 
His  altar's  foot  in  trembling  prayer! 


Tis  past  —  the  'wildering  vision  dies 
In  darkness  on  my  dreaming  eyes! 
The  forest  vanishes  in  air  — 
Hill-slope  and  vale  lie  starkly  bare ; 
I  hear  the  common  tread  of  men, 
And  hum  of  work-day  life  again  : 
The  mystic  relic  seems  alone 
A  broken  mass  of  common  stone  ; 
And  if  it  be  the  chiselled  limb 
Of  Berserkar  or  idol  grim  — 
A  fragment  of  Valhalla's  Thor, 
The  stormy  Viking's  god  of  War, 
Of  Praga  of  the  Runic  lay, 
Or  love  awakening  Siona, 
I  know  not  —  for  no  graven  line, 
Nor  Druid  mark,  nor  Runic  sign, 
Is  left  me  here,  by  which  to  trace 
Its  name,  or  origin,  or  place. 

Yet,  for  this  vision  of  the  Past, 
This  glance  upon  its  darkness  cast, 
My  spirit  bows  in  gratitude 
Before  the  Giver  of  all  good, 
Who  fashioned  so  the  human  mind, 
That,  from  the  waste  of  Time  behind 
A  simple  stone,  or  mound  of  earth, 
Can  summon  the  departed  forth  ; 


CASSANDRA   SOUTHWICK.  39 

Quicken  the  Past  to  life  again  — 
The  Present  lose  in  what  hath  been, 
And  in  their  primal  freshness  show 
The  buried  forms  of  long  ago. 
As  if  a  portion  of  that  Thought 
By  which  the  Eternal  will  is  wrought, 
Whose  impulse  fills  anew  with  breath 
The  frozen  solitude  of  Death, 
To  mortal  mind  were  sometimes  lent, 
To  mortal  musings  sometimes  sent, 
To  whisper  —  even  when  it  seems 
But  Memory's  phantasy  of  dreams  — 
Through  the  mind's  waste  of  woe  and  sin, 
Of  an  immortal  origin! 
1841. 


CASSANDRA   SOUTHWICK. 

[In  the  following  ballad,  the  author  has  endeavored  to  dis 
play  the  strong  enthusiasm  of  the  early  Quaker,  the  short 
sighted  intolerance  of  the  clergy  and  magistrates,  and  that 
sympathy  with  the  oppressed,  which  the  "  common  people," 
when  not  directly  under  the  control  of  spiritual  despotism,  have 
ever  evinced.  He  is  not  blind  to  the  extravagance  of  language 
and  action  which  characterized  some  of  the  pioneers  of  Qua 
kerism  in  New  England,  and  which  furnished  persecution  with 
its  solitary  but  most  inadequate  excuse. 

The  ballad  has  its  foundation  upon  a  somewhat  remarkable 
event  in  the  history  of  Puritan  intolerance.  Two  young  per 
sons,  son  and  daughter  of  Lawrence  Southwick,  of  Salem,  who 
had  himself  been  imprisoned  and  deprived  of  all  his  property 
for  having  entertained  two  Quakers  at  his  house,  were  fined 


4O  LEGENDARY. 

ten  pounds  each  for  non-attendance  at  church,  which  they  were 
unable  to  pay.  The  case  being  represented  to  the  General 
Court,  at  Boston,  that  body  issued  an  order,  which  may  still  be 
seen  on  the  court  records,  bearing  the  signature  of  Edward 
Rawson,  Secretary,  by  which  the  treasurer  of  the  County  was 
"  fully  empowered  to  sell  the  said  persons  to  any  of  the  English 
nation  at  Virginia  or  Barbadoes,  to  answer  said  fines."  An 
attempt  was  made  to  carry  this  barbarous  order  into  execution, 
but  no  shipmaster  was  found  willing  to  convey  them  to  the 
West  Indies.  —  Vide  Sewall's  History,  pp.  225,  226,  G.  Bishop.] 

To  the  God  of  all  sure  mercies  let  my  blessing  rise 
to-day, 

From  the  scoffer  and  the  cruel  He  hath  plucked  the 
spoil  away,  — 

Yea,  He  who  cooled  the  furnace  around  the  faithful 
three, 

And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  hath  set  His  hand 
maid  free! 

Last  night  I  saw  the  sunset  melt  through  my  prison 

bars, 
Last  night  across  my  damp  earth-floor  fell  the  pale 

gleam  of  stars ; 
In  the  coldness  and  the  darkness  all  through  the 

long  night  time, 

My  grated  casement  whitened  with  Autumn's  early 
rime. 

Alone,  in  that  dark  sorrow,  hour  after  hour  crept 

by; 
Star  after  star  looked  palely  in  and  sank  adown  the 

sky; 


CASSANDKA   SOVTHWICK*  41 

No  sound   amid   night's   stillness,  save   that  which 

seemed  to  be 
The  dull  and  heavy  beating  of  the  pulses  of  the  sea ; 

All  night  I  sat  unsleeping,  for  I  knew  that  on  the 

morrow 
The  ruler  and  the  cruel  priest  would  mock  me  in  my 

sorrow, 
Dragged  to  their  place  of  market,  and  bargained  for 

and  sold, 
Like  a  lamb  before  the  shambles,  like  a  heifer  from 

the  fold  ! 

Oh,  the  weakness  of  the  flesh  was  there  —  the 
shrinking  and  the  shame  ; 

And  the  low  voice  of  the  Tempter  like  whispers  to 
me  came  : 

"Why  sit'st  thou  thus  forlornly  !"  the  wicked  mur 
mur  said, 

"  Damp  walls  thy  bower  of  beauty,  cold  earth  thy 
maiden  bed  ? 

'•Where  be  the  smiling  faces,  and  voices  soft  and 

sweet, 
Seen  in  thy  fathers  dwelling,  heard  in  the  pleasant 

street? 
Where  be  the   youths,  whose   glances   the   summer 

Sabbath  through 
Turned  tenderly  and  timidly  unto  thy  father's  pew  ? 

"Why  sifst  thou  here,  Cassandra? — Bethink  thee 
with  what  mirth 


42  LEGENDARY. 

Thy   happy   schoolmates   gather    around   the   warm 

bright  hearth  ; 
How  the  crimson  shadows  tremble  on  foreheads 

white  and  fair, 
On  eyes  of  merry  girlhood,  half  hid  in  golden  hair. 

"  Not  for  thee  the  hearth-fire  brightens,  not  for  thee 

kind  words  are  spoken, 
Not  for  thee  the  nuts  of  Wenham  woods  by  laughing 

boys  are  broken, 
No    first-fruits    of   the    orchard  within  thy    lap    are 

laid, 
For  thee  no  flowers  of  Autumn  the  youthful  hunters 

braid. 

"  Oh  !  weak,  deluded  maiden  !  —  by  crazy  fancies 
led, 

With  wild  and  raving  railers  an  evil  path  to 
tread ; 

To  leave  a  wholesome  worship,  and  teaching  pure 
and  sound ; 

And  mate  with  maniac  women,  loose-haired  and  sack 
cloth-bound. 

"  Mad  scoffers  of  the  priesthood,  who  mock  at  things 

divine., 
Who   rail   against    the    pulpit,  and    holy   bread  and 

wine ; 
Sore  from  their  cart-tail  scourgings,  and  from   the 

pillory  lame, 
Rejoicing   in    their   wretchedness,   and    glorying    in 

their  shame. 


CASSANDRA   SOUTIIU'ICK.  43 

"And   what   a   fate   awaits   thee?  —  a   sadly  toiling 

slave. 
Dragging  the  slowly  lengthening  chain  of  bondage 

to  the  grave  ! 
Think  of  thy  woman's  nature,  subdued   in  hopeless 

thrall. 
The  easy  prey  of  any,  the  scoff  and  scorn  of  all  ! " 

Oh  !  —  ever    as    the    Tempter    spoke,    and    feeble 

Nature's  fears 
Wrung  drop  by  drop  the  scalding  flow  of  unavailing 

tears, 
I  wrestled  down   the   evil   thoughts,  and   strove   in 

silent  prayer, 
To  feel,  oh,  Helper  of  the  weak  !  —  that  Thou  indeed 

wert  there  ! 

I  thought  of  Paul  and  Silas,  within  Philippics  cell, 

And  how  from  Peter's  sleeping  limbs  the  prison- 
shackles  fell, 

Till  I  seemed  to  hear  the  trailing  of  an  angel's  robe 
of  white, 

And  to  feel  a  blessed  presence  invisible  to  sight. 

Bless  the  Lord  for  all  His  mercies!  —  for  the  peace 

and  love  I  felt, 
Like   dew   of  Hermon's   holy   hill,    upon    my   spirit 

melt ; 
When,  "Get  behind  me,  Satan!'1  was  the  language 

of  my  heart, 
And    I    felt   the    Evil   Tempter  with  all  his   doubts 

depart. 


44  LEGENDARY. 

Slow  broke  the  gray  cold  morning;  again  the  sun 
shine  fell, 

Flecked  with  the  shade  of  bar  and  grate  within  my 
lonely  cell ; 

The  hoar  frost  melted  on  the  wall,  and  upward  from 
the  street  • 

Came  careless  laugh  and  idle  word,  and  tread  of 
passing  feet. 

At    length    the  heavy  bolts  fell  back,  my  door  was 

open  cast, 
And  slowly  at  the  sheriffs  side,  up  the  long  street 

I  passed ; 
I  heard  the  murmur  round  me,  and  felt,  but  dared 

not  see, 
How,  from  every  door  and  window,  the  people  gazed 

on  me. 

And  doubt  and  fear  fell  on  me,  shame  burned  upon 
my  cheek, 

Swam  earth  and  sky  around  me,  m}-  trembling  limbs 
grew  weak : 

"  Oh,  Lord  !  support  thy  handmaid ;  and  from  her 
soul  cast  out 

The  fear  of  man,  which  brings  a  snare  —  the  weak 
ness  and  the  doubt." 

Then  the  dreary  shadows  scattered   like  a  cloud  in 

morning's  breeze, 
And  a  low  deep  voice  within  me  seemed  whispering 

words  like  these : 


CASSANDRA   SOL'THIVICK.  45 

44  Though  thy  earth  be  as  the  iron,  and  thy  heaven 

a  brazen  wall. 
Trust    still    His    loving    kindness  whose    power  is 

overall.11 


We  paused  at  length,  where  at  my  feet  the  sunlit 

waters  broke 
On  glaring  reach  of  shining  beach,  and  shingly  wall 

of  rock ; 
The   merchant-ships    lay   idly   there,   in   hard   clear 

lines  on  high, 
Tracing  with   rope  and  slender  spar  their  net-work 

on  the  sky. 

And  there  were  ancient  citizens,  cloak-wrapped  and 

grave  and  cold, 
And  grim  and  stout  sea-captains  with  faces  bronzed 

and  old, 
And  on  his  horse,  with  Rawson,  his  cruel  clerk  at 

hand. 
Sat  dark  and   haughty   Endicott,  the   ruler  of  the 

land. 

And  poisoning  with  his  evil  words  the  ruler's  ready 

ear, 
The  priest  leaned  o'er  his  saddle,  with   laugh  and 

scoff  and  jeer ; 
It   stirred   my  soul,  and   from   my  lips   the  seal   of 

silence  broke, 
As  if  through   woman's  weakness  a  warning  spirit 

spoke. 


46  LEGENDARY. 

I   cried,  ^  The  Lord  rebuke  thee,  thou  smiter  of  the 

meek, 
Thou  robber  of  the  righteous,  thou  trampler  of  the 

weak  ! 
Go  light  the  dark,  cold  hearth-stones  —  go  turn  the 

prison  lock 
Of  the  poor  hearts  thou  hast  hunted,  thou  wolf  amid 

the  flock  ! " 

Dark  lowered   the   brows    of  Endicott,  and  with    a 

deeper  red 
O'er   Rawson's    wine-empurpled   cheek  the    flush  of 

anger  spread  ; 
"  Good  people,"  quoth  the  white-lipped  priest,  "  heed 

not  her  words  so  wild, 
Her  Master  speaks  within  her  —  the  Devil  owns  his 

child  ! " 

But  gray  heads  shook,  and  young  brows  knit,  the 

while  the  sheriff  read 
That  law  the  wicked  rulers  against  the  poor  have 

made, 
Who  to  their  house  of  Rimmon  and  idol  priesthood 

bring 
No  bended  knee  of  worship,  nor  gainful  offering. 

Then  to   the  stout  sea-captains  the  sheriff  turning 

said : 
"  Which  of  ye,  worthy  seamen,  will  take  this  Quaker 

maid  ? 

In  the  Isle  of  fair  Barbadoes,  or  on  Virginia's  shore, 
You  may  hold  her  at  a  higher  price  than  Indian  girl 

or  Moor/' 


CASSANDRA    SOr/7/ll'/CA'.  47 

Grim  and  silent  stood  the  captains ;  and  when  again 

he  cried, 
"Speak  out,  my  worthy  seamen!"  —  no   voice,    no 

sign  replied ; 
But  I  felt  a  hard  hand  press  my  own,  and  kind  words 

met  my  ear : 
"  God  bless  thee,  and  preserve  thee,  my  gentle  girl 

and  dear ! " 

A  weight   seemed   lifted   from   my  heart,  a   pitying 

friend  was  nigh, 
I  felt  it  in  his  hard,  rough  hand,  and  saw  it  in  his 

eye; 
And  when  again  the  sheriff  spoke,  that  voice,  so  kind 

to  me, 
Growled  back  its  stormy  answer  like  the  roaring  of 

the  sea : 

"Pile  my  ship  with  bars  of  silver  —  pack  with  coins 

of  Spanish  gold, 
From  keel-piece  up  to  deck-plank,  the  roomage  of  her 

hold, 
By  the  living  God  who  made  me  !  —  I  would  sooner 

in  your  bay 
Sink  ship  and  crew  and  cargo,  than  bear  this  child 

away  ! " 

"Well   answered,    worthy   captain,   shame   on    their 

cruel  laws  ! " 
Ran  through  the  crowd  in  murmurs  loud  the  people's 

just  applause. 


48  LEGENDARY. 

'•  Like  the  herdsmen  of  Tekoa,  in  Israel  of  old, 
Shall  we  see  the  poor  and  righteous  again  for  silver 
sold  ? " 

I  looked  on  haughty  Enclicott ;  with  weapon  half 
way  drawn. 

Swept  round  the  throng  his  lion  glare  of  bitter  hate 
and  scorn ; 

Fiercely  he  drew  his  bridle  rein,  and  turned  in  silence 
back, 

And  sneering  priest  and  baffled  clerk  rode  murmur 
ing  in  his  track. 

Hard  after  them  the  sheriff  looked,  in  bitterness  of 

soul ; 
Thrice  smote  his  staff  upon  the  ground,  and  crushed 

his  parchment  roll. 
"  Good  friends,1'  he  said,  "  since  both  have  fled,  the 

ruler  and  the  priest, 
Judge  ye,  if  from  their  further  work   I  be  not  well 

released." 

Loud  was  the  cheer  which,  full  and  clear,  swept  round 

the  silent  bay, 
As,  with  kind  words  and  kinder  looks,  he  bade  me 

go  my  way ; 
For  He  who  turns  the  courses   of  the  streamlet   of 

the  glen, 
And  the  river  of  great  waters,  had  turned  the  hearts 

of  men. 


CASSAXDKA    SOUTinriCK.  49 

Oh,  at   that   hour  the  very  earth    seemed   changed 

beneath  my  eye. 
A  holier  wonder  round  me   rose  the  blue  walls  of 

the  sky, 
A   lovelier   light   on  rock  and  hill,  and  stream  and 

woodland  lay. 
And  softer  lapsed  on  sunnier  sands  the  waters  of  the 

bay. 

Thanksgiving  to  the  Lord  of  life  !  —  to  Him  all 
praises  be, 

Who  from  the  hands  of  evil  men  hath  set  His  hand 
maid  free ; 

All  praise  to  Him  before  whose  power  the  mighty 
are  afraid, 

Who  takes  the  crafty  in  the  snare,  which  for  the 
poor  is  laid ! 

Sing,  oh,  my  soul,  rejoicingly,  on  evening's  twilight 
calm 

Uplift  the  loud  thanksgiving  —  pour  forth  the  grate 
ful  psalm  ; 

Let  all  dear  hearts  with  me  rejoice,  as  did  the  saints 
of  old, 

When  of  the  Lord's  good  angel  the  rescued  Peter 
told. 

And  weep  and  howl,  ye  evil  priests  and  mighty  men 

of  wrong, 
The  Lord  shall  smite  the  proud  and    lay  His  hand 

upon  the  strong. 


50  LEGENDARY. 

Woe  to  the  wicked  rulers  in  His  avenging  hour! 
Woe  to  the  wolves  who  seek  the  flocks  to  raven  and 
devour : 

But  let  the  humble  ones  arise,  —  the  poor  in  heart  be 

glad, 
And  let  the  mourning  ones  again  with  robes  of  praise 

be  clad, 
For  He  who  cooled  the  furnace,  and  smoothed  the 

stormy  wave, 
And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  is  mighty  still  to  save! 

1842. 


FUNERAL  TREE  OF  THE  SOKOKIS,1 

AROUND  Sebago's  lonely  lake 
There  lingers  not  a  breeze  to  break 
The  mirror  which  its  waters  make. 

The  solemn  pines  along  its  shore, 
The  firs  which  hang  its  gray  rocks  o'er, 
Are  painted  on  its  glassy  floor. 

I  Polan,  a  chief  of  the  Sokokis  Indians,  the  original  inhabi 
tants  of  the  country  lying  between  Agamenticus  and  Casco  Bay, 
was  killed  in  a  skirmish  at  Windham,  on  the  Sebago  lake,  in 
the  spring  of  1756.  He  claimed  all  the  lands  on  both  sides  of 
the  Presumpscot  River  to  its  mouth  at  Casco,  as  his  own.  He 
was  shrewd,  subtle,  and  brave.  After  the  white  men  had  re 
tired,  the  surviving  Indians  "swayed"  or  bent  down  a  young 
tree  until  its  roots  were  turned  up,  placed  the  body  of  their 
chief  beneath  them,  and  then  released  the  tree  to  spring  bacK 
to  its  former  position. 


FUNERAL  TREE  OF  THE  SOKOKIS.   5  1 

The  sun  looks  o'er,  with  hazy  eye, 
The  snowy  mountain-tops  which  lie 
Piled  coldly  up  against  the  sky. 


and  white!  save-  where  the  bleak, 
Wild  winds  have  bared  some  splintering  peak, 
Or  Miow-slide  left  its  dusky  streak. 

Yet  green  are  Saco's  banks  below, 
And  belts  of  spruce  and  cedar  show, 
Dark  fringing  round  those  cones  of  snow. 

The  earth  hath  felt  the  breath  of  spring, 
Though  yet  on  her  deliverer's  wing 
The  lingering  frosts  of  winter  cling. 

Fresh  grasses  fringe  the  meadow-brooks, 
And  mildly  from  its  sunny  nooks 
The  blue  eye  of  the  violet  looks. 


And  odors  from  the  springing  grass 
The  sweet  birch  and  the  sassafras, 
Upon  the  scarce-felt  breezes  pass. 

Her  tokens  of  renewing  care 
Hath  Nature  scattered  everywhere, 
In  bud  and  flower,  and  warmer  air, 


But  in  their  hour  of  bitterness, 
What  reck  the  broken  Sokokis, 
Beside  their  slaughtered  chief,  of  this 


52  LEGENDARY. 

The  turfs  red  stain  is  yet  undried  — 
Scarce  have  the  death-shot  echoes  died 
Along  Sebago's  wooded  side  •. 

And  silent  now  the  hunters  stand, 
Grouped  darkly,  where  a  swell  of  land 
Slopes  upward  from  the  lake's  white  sand. 

Fire  and  the  axe  have  swept  it  bare, 
Save  one  lone  beech,  unclosing  there 
Its  light  leaves  in  the  vernal  air. 


With  grave,  cold  looks,  all  sternly  mute, 
They  break  the  damp  turf  at  its  foot, 
And  bare  its  coiled  and  twisted  root. 

They  heave  the  stubborn  trunk  aside, 
The  firm  roots  from  the  earth  divide  — 
The  rent  beneath  yawns  dark  and  wide. 

And  there  the  fallen  chief  is  laid, 
In  tasselled  garb  of  skins  arrayed, 
And  girded  with  his  wampum-braid. 

The  silver  cross  he  loved  is  pressed 
Beneath  the  heavy  arms,  which  rest 
Upon  his  scarred  and  naked  breast.1 

1  The  Sokokis  were  early  converts  to  the  Catholic  faith. 
Most  of  them,  prior  to  the  year  1756,  had  removed  to  the  French 
settlements  on  the  St.  Francois. 


/•YVTA'AV/A    TK /•:/-.    (>/-'    THE    SOKOh'iS.        53 

T  is  done  :  the  roots  are  backward  sent, 
The  beechen  tree  stands  up  unbent  — 
The  Indian's  fitting  monument! 

When  of  that  sleeper's  broken  race 
Their  green  and  pleasant  dwelling-place 
Which  knew  them  once,  retains  no  trace ; 

O!  long  may  sunset's  light  be  shed 
As  now  upon  that  beech's  head  — 
A  green  memorial  of  the  dead! 

There  shall  his  fitting  requiem  be, 
In  northern  winds,  that,  cold  and  free, 
Howl  nightly  in  that  funeral  tree. 

To  their  wild  wail  the  waves  which  break 
Forever  round  that  lonely  lake 
A  solemn  under-tone  shall  make! 

And  who  shall  deem  the  spot  unblest, 
Where  Nature's  younger  children  rest, 
Lulled  on  their  sorrowing  mother's  breast  ? 

Deem  ye  that  mother  loveth  less 
These  bronzed  forms  of  the  wilderness 
She  foldeth  in  her  long  caress  ? 

As  sweet  o'er  them  her  wild  flowers  blow, 
As  if  with  fairer  hair  and  brow 
The  blue-eyed  Saxon  slept  below. 


54  LEGENDARY. 

What  though  the  places  of  their  rest 
No  priestly  knee  hath  ever  pressed  — 
No  funeral  rite  nor  prayer  hath  blessed? 

What  though  the  bigot's  ban  be  there, 
And  thoughts  of  wailing  and  despair, 
And  cursing  in  the  place  of  prayer  ! 1 

Yet  Heaven  hath  angels  watching  round 
The  Indian?s  lowliest  forest-mound  — 
And  they  have  made  it  holy  ground. 

There  ceases  man's  frail  judgment ;  all 
His  powerless  bolts  of  cursing  fall 
Unheeded  on  that  grassy  pall. 

O,  peeled,  and  hunted,  and  reviled, 
Sleep  on?  dark  tenant  of  the  wild! 
Great  Nature  owns  her  simple  child! 

And  Nature's  God,  to  whom  alone 
The  secret  of  the  heart  is  known  — 
The  hidden  language  traced  thereon ; 

Who  from  its  many  cumberings 

Of  form  and  creed,  and  outward  things, 

To  light  the  naked  spirit  brings ; 

1  The  brutal  and  unchristian  spirit  of  the  early  settlers  ot 
New  England  toward  the  red  man  is  strikingly  illustrated  in 
the  conduct  of  th£  man  who  shot  down  the  Sokokis  chief.  He 
used  to  say  he  always  noticed  the  anniversary  of  that  exploit,  as 
"  the  day  on  which  he  sent  the  devil  a  present."  —  Williamson's 
History  of  Maine, 


55 


Not  with  our  partial  eye  shall  scan  — 
Not  with  our  pride  and  scorn  shall  ban 
The  spirit  of  our  brother  man! 

1841- 


ST.   JOHN. 

[The  fierce  rivalship  of  the  two  French  officers,  left  by  the 
death  of  RAZH.i.A  in  the  possession  of  Acadia,  or  Nova  Scotia, 
forms  one  of  the  most  romantic  passages  in  the  history  of  the 
New  World.  CHARLES  ST.  ESTIENNE,  inheriting  from  his 
lather  the  title  of  Lord  DE  LA  TOUR,  whose  seat  was  at  the 
mouth  of  the  St.  John's  River,  was  a  Protestant;  DE  AULNEY 
CHARNISY,  whose  fortress  was  at  the  mouth  of  the  Penobscot, 
or  ancient  Pentagoet,  was  a  Catholic.  The  incentives  of  a  false 
religious  feeling,  sectarian  intolerance,  and  personal  interest 
and  ambition,  conspired  to  render  their  feud  bloody  and  unspar 
ing.  The  Catholic  was  urged  on  by  the  Jesuits,  who  had  found 
protection  from  Puritan  gallows-ropes  under  his  jurisdiction; 
the  Huguenot  still  smarted  under  the  recollection  of  his  wrongs 
and  persecutions  in  France.  Both  claimed  to  be  champions  of 
that  cross  from  which  went  upward  the  holy  petition  of  the 
Prince  of  Peace  :  "  Father,  forgive  them."  LA  TOUR  received 
aid  in  several  instances  from  the  Puritan  colonies  of  Massachu 
setts.  During  one  of  his  voyages  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining 
arms  and  provisions  for  his  establishment  at  St.  John,  his  castle 
was  attacked  by  DE  AULNEY,  and  successfully  defended  by  its 
high-spirited  mistress.  A  second  attack,  however,  followed  in 
the  4th  mo.  1647.  Lady  LA  TOUR  defended  her  castle  with  a 
desperate  perseverance.  After  a  furious  cannonade,  DE  AUL- 
NEY  stormed  the  walls,  and  put  the  entire  garrison  to  the  sword. 
Lady  LA  TOUR  languished  a  few  days  only  in  the  hands  of  her 
inveterate  enemy,  and  died  of  grief,  greatly  regretted  by  the 
colonists  of  Boston,  to  whom,  as  a  devoted  Protestant,  she  was 
well  known.] 


56  LEGENDARY. 

"  To  the  winds  give  our  banner  .' 

Bear  homeward  again !  " 
Cried  the  lord  of  Acadia, 

Cried  Charles  of  Estienne  ; 
From  the  prow  of  his  shallop 

He  gazed,  as  the  sun, 
From  its  bed  in  the  ocean. 

Streamed  up  the  St.  John. 


O'er  the  blue  western  waters 

That  shallop  had  passed, 
Where  the  mists  of  Penobscot 

Clung  damp  on  her  mast. 
St.  Saviour1  had  look'd 

On  the  heretic  sail, 
As  the  songs  of  the  Huguenot 

Rose  on  the  gale. 


The  pale,  ghostly  fathers 

Remembered  her  well, 
And  had  cursed  her  while  passing, 

With  taper  and  bell, 
But  the  men  of  Monhegan,2 

Of  Papists  abhorr'd, 
Had  welcomed  and  feasted 

The  heretic  Lord. 


1  The  settlement  of  the  Jesuits  on  the  island  of  Mount  Desert 
was  called  St.  Saviour. 

2  The  isle  of  Monhegan  was  one  of  the  first  settled  on  the 
coast  of  Maine. 


ST.   JOHN.  $7 

They  had  loaded  his  shallop 

With  dun-fish  and  ball, 
With  stores  for  his  larder, 

And  steel  for  his  wall. 
Pemequid,  from  her  bastions 

And  turrets  of  stone, 
Had  welcomed  his  coming 

With  banner  and  gun. 

And  the  prayers  of  the  elders 

Had  followed  his  way, 
As  homeward  he  glided, 

Down  Pentecost  Bay. 
O!  well  sped  La  Tour! 

For,  in  peril  and  pain, 
His  lady  kept  watch 

For  his  coming  again. 

O'er  the  Isle  of  the  Pheasant 

The  morning  sun  shone. 
On  the  plane  trees  which  shaded 

The  shores  of  St.  John. 
"  Now.  why  from  yon  battlements 

Speaks  not  my  love ! 
Why  waves  there  no  banner 

My  fortress  above?" 

Dark  and  wild,  from  his  deck 

St.  Estienne  gazed  about, 
On  fire-wasted  dwellings, 

And  silent  redoubt ; 


58  LEGENDARY. 

From  the  low,  shattered  walls 
Which  the  flame  had  o'errun, 

There  floated  no  banner, 
There  thundered  no  gun ! 

But,  beneath  the  low  arch 

Of  its  doorway  there  stood 
A  pale  priest  of  Rome, 

In  his  cloak  and  his  hood. 
With  the  bound  of  a  lion, 

La  Tour  sprang  to  land, 
On  the  throat  of  the  Papist 

He  fastened  his  hand. 

"  Speak,  son  of  the  Woman, 

Of  scarlet  and  sin! 
What  wolf  has  been  prowling 

My  castle  within  ?  " 
From  the  grasp  of  the  soldier 

The  Jesuit  broke, 
Half  in  scorn,  half  in  sorrow, 

He  smiled  as  he  spoke  : 

"No  wolf,  Lord  of  Estienne, 

Has  ravaged  thy  hall, 
But  thy  red-handed  rival, 

With  fire,  steel,  and  ball! 
On  an  errand  of  mercy 

I  hitherward  came, 
While  the  walls  of  thy  castle 

Yet  spouted  with  flame. 


ST.  y."//.v.  S9 


"  Pentagoet's  dark  vessels 

Were  moored  in  the  bay, 
Grim  sea-lions,  roaring 

Aloud  for  their  prey." 
u  But  what  of  my  lady  ? " 

Cried  Charles  of  Estienne  : 
"  On  the  shot-crumbled  turret 

Thy  lady  was  seen  : 


"  Half-veiled  in  the  smoke-cloud 

Her  hand  grasped  thy  pennon, 
While  her  dark  tresses  swayed 

In  the  hot  breath  of  cannon! 
But  woe  to  the  heretic, 

Evermore  woe! 
When  the  son  of  the  church 

And  the  cross  is  his  foe! 

"  In  the  track  of  the  shell, 

In  the  path  of  the  ball, 
Pentagoet  swept  over 

The  breach  of  the  wall ! 
Steel  to  steel,  gun  to  gun, 

One  moment  —  and  then 
Alone  stood  the  victor, 

Alone  with  his  men! 

"  Of  its  sturdy  defenders, 

Thy  lady  alone 
Saw  the  cross-blazon'd  banner 

Float  over  St.  John." 


60  LEGENDARY. 

"  Let  the  dastard  look  to  it!  " 
Cried  fiery  Estienne, 

"  Were  D'Aulney  King  Louis, 
Pd  free  her  again!" 

"Alas,  for  thy  lady! 

No  service  from  thee 
Is  needed  by  her 

Whom  the  Lord  hath  set  free 
Nine  days,  in  stern  silence, 

Her  thraldom  she  bore, 
But  the  tenth  morning  came, 

And  Death  opened  her  door!'1 

As  if  suddenly  smitten 

La  Tour  stagger'd  back  ; 
His  hand  grasped  his  sword-hilt, 

His  forehead  grew  black. 
He  sprang  on  the  deck 

Of  his  shallop  again  : 
"We  cruise  now  for  vengeance! 

Give  way!  "  cried  Estienne. 

"  Massachusetts  shall  hear 

Of  the  Huguenot's  wrong. 
And  from  island  and  creek-side 

Her  fishers  shall  throng! 
Pentagoet  shall  rue 

What  his  Papists  have  done. 
When  his  palisades  echo 

The  Puritan's  gun!  " 


PEN  TUCKET.  6 1 

O!  the  loveliest  of  heavens 

Hung  tenderly  o'er  him, 
There  were  waves  in  the  sunshine, 

And  green  isles  before  him  : 
But  a  pale  hand  was  beckoning 

The  Huguenot  on ; 
And  in  blackness  and  ashes 

Behind  was  St.  John! 
1841. 


PENTUCKET. 

[The  village  of  Haverhill,  on  the  Merrimack,  called  by  the 
Indians  Pentucket,  was  for  nearly  seventeen  years  a  frontier 
town,  and  during  thirty  years  endured  all  the  horrors  of  savage 
warfare.  In  the  year  1708,  a  combined  body  of  French  and 
Indians,  under  the  command  of  De  Challions,  and  Hertel  de 
Rouville,  the  infamous  and  bloody  sacker  of  Deerfield,  made 
an  attack  upon  the  village,  which  at  that  time  contained  only 
thirty  houses.  Sixteen  of  the  villagers  were  massacred,  and  a 
still  larger  number  made  prisoners.  About  thirty  of  the  enemy 
also  fell,  and  among  them  Hertel  de  Rouville.  The  minister 
of  the  place,  Benjamin  Rolfe,  was  killed  by  a  shot  through  his 
own  door.] 

How  sweetly  on  the  wood-girt  town 
The  mellow  light  of  sunset  shone! 
Each  small,  bright  lake,  whose  waters  still 
Mirror  the  forest  and  the  hill, 
Reflected  from  its  waveless  breast 
The  beauty  of  a  cloudless  West, 
Glorious  as  if  a  glimpse  were  given 
Within  the  western  gates  of  Heaven, 


62  LEGENDARY. 

Left,  by  the  spirit  of  the  star 
Of  sunset's  holy  hour,  ajar! 

Beside  the  river's  tranquil  flood 
The  dark  and  low-walPd  -dwellings  stood, 
WThere  many  a  rood  of  open  land 
Stretched  up  and  down  on  either  hand, 
With  corn-leaves  waving  freshly  green 
The  thick  and  blacken'd  stumps  between. 
Behind,  unbroken,  deep  and  dread, 
The  wild,  untravell'd  forest  spread, 
Back  to  those  mountains,  white  and  cold, 
Of  which  the  Indian  trapper  told, 
Upon  whose  summits  never  yet 
Was  mortal  foot  in  safety  set. 

Quiet  and  calm,  without  a  fear 
Of  danger  darkly  lurking  near, 
The  weary  laborer  left  his  plough  — 
The  milk-maid  carolPd  by  her  cow  — 
From  cottage  door  and  household  hearth 
Rose  songs  of  praise,  or  tones  of  mirth. 
At  length  the  murmur  died  away, 
And  silence  on  that  village  lay  — 
So  slept  Pompeii,  tower  and  hall, 
Ere  the  quick  earthquake  sw^allow'd  all, 
Undreaming  of  the  fiery  fate 
Which  made  its  dwellings  desolate  ! 

Hours  pass'd  away.     By  moonlight  sped 
The  Merrimack  along  his  bed. 
Bathed  in  the  pallid  lustre,  stood 
Dark  cottage-wall  and  rock  and  wood, 


PENTUCKET.  63 

Silent,  beneath  that  tranquil  beam, 
As  the  hush'd  grouping  of  a  dream. 
Yet  on  the  still  air  crept  a  sound  — 
No  bark  of  fox  —  nor  rabbit's  bound  — 
Nor  stir  of  wings  —  nor  waters  flowing  — 
Nor  leaves  in  midnight  breezes  blowing. 

Was  that  the  tread  of  many  feet, 

Which  downward  from  the  hillside  beat? 

What  forms  were  those  which  darkly  stood 

Just  on  the  margin  of  the  wood?  — 

Charr'd  tree-stumps  in  the  moonlight  dim, 

Or  paling  rude,  or  leafless  limb? 

No  —  through  the  trees  fierce  eye-balls  glow'd, 

Dark  human  forms  in  sunshine  show'd, 

Wild  from  their  native  wilderness, 

With  painted  limbs  and  battle-dress  ! 

A  yell,  the  dead  might  wake  to  hear, 
Swell'd  on  the  night  air,  far  and  clear  — 
Then  smote  the  Indian  tomahawk 
On  crashing  door  and  shattering  lock  — 
Then  rang  the  rifle-shot  —  and  then 
The  shrill  death-scream  of  stricken  men  — 
Sank  the  red  axe  in  woman's  brain, 
And  childhood's  cry  arose  in  vain  — 
Bursting  through  roof  and  window  came, 
Red,  fast  and  fierce,  the  kindled  flame ; 
And  blended  fire  and  moonlight  glared 
On  still  dead  men  and  weapons  bared. 

The  morning  sun  looked  brightly  through 
The  river  willows,  wet  with  dew. 


64  LEGENDARY. 

No  sound  of  combat  filPd  the  air,  — 
No  shout  was  heard,  —  nor  gun-shot  there : 
Yet  still  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 
From  smouldering  ruins  slowly  broke, 
And  on  the  green  sward  many  a  stain, 
And,  here  and  there,  the  mangled  slain 
Told  how  that  midnight  bolt  had  sped, 
Pentucket,  on  thy  fated  head  ! 

Even  now  the  villager  can  tell 
Where  Rolfe  beside  his  hearth-stone  fell, 
Still  show  the  door  of  wasting  oak 
Through  which  the  fatal  death-shot  broke, 
And  point  the  curious  stranger  where 
De  Rouville's  corse  lay  grim  and  bare  — 
Whose  hideous  head,  in  death  still  fear'd, 
Bore  not  a  trace  of  hair  or  beard  — 
And  still,  within  the  churchyard  ground, 
Heaves  darkly  up  the  ancient  mound, 
Whose  grass-grown  surface  overlies 
The  victims  of  that  sacrifice. 
1838. 


THE    FAMILIST'S    HYMN. 

[The  "  Pilgrims  "  of  New  England,  even  in  their  wilderness 
home,  were  not  exempted  from  the  sectarian  contentions 
which  agitated  the  mother  country  after  the  downfall  of 
Charles  the  First,  and  of  the  established  Episcopacy.  The 
Quakers,  Baptists,  and  Catholics  were  banished,  on  pain  of 
death,  from  the  Massachusetts  Colony.  One  Samuel  Gorton, 


THE   FAM I  LIST'S  IIYMX.  6$ 

a  bold  and  eloquent  declaimcr,  after  preaching  for  a  time  in 
Boston,  against  the  doctrines  of  the  Puritans,  and  declaring 
that  their  churches  were  mere  human  devices,  and  their  sacra 
ment  and  baptism  an  abomination,  was  driven  out  of  the 
State's  jurisdiction,  and  compelled  to  seek  a  residence  among 
the  savages.  He  gathered  round  him  a  considerable  number 
of  converts,  who,  like  the  primitive  Christians,  shared  all 
things  in  common.  His  opinions,  however,  were  so  trouble 
some  to  the  leading  clergy  of  the  Colony,  that  they  instigated 
an  attack  upon  his  "  Family "  by  an  armed  force,  which 
seized  upon  the  principal  men  in  it,  and  brought  them  into 
Massachusetts,  where  they  were  sentenced  to  be  kept  at  hard 
labor  in  several  towns  (one  only  in  each  town),  during  the 
pleasure  of  the  General  Court,  they  being  forbidden,  under 
severe  penalties,  to  utter  any  of  their  religious  sentiments 
except  to  such  ministers  as  might  labor  for  their  conversion. 
They  were  unquestionably  sincere  in  their  opinions,  and, 
whatever  may  have  been  their  errors,  deserved  to  be  ranked 
among  those  who  have  in  all  ages  suffered  for  the  freedom  of 
conscience.] 

FATHER  !  to  thy  suffering  poor 

Strength  and  grace  and  faith  impart, 
And  with  Thy  own  love  restore 

Comfort  to  the  broken  heart ! 
Oh,  the  failing  ones  confirm 

With  a  holier  strength  of  zeal!  — 
Give  Thou  not  the  feeble  worm 

Helpless  to  the  spoiler's  heel! 


Father  !  for  Thy  holy  sake 
We  are  spoiled  and  hunted  thus ; 

Joyful,  for  Thy  truth  we  take 
Bonds  and  burthens  unto  us  : 


66  LEGENDARY. 

Poor,  and  weak,  and  robbed  of  all, 
Weary  with  our  daily  task, 

That  Thy  truth  may  never  fall 

Through  our  weakness,  Lord,  we  ask, 

Round  our  fired  and  wasted  homes 

Flits  the  forest-bird  unscared, 
And  at  noon  the  wild  beast  comes 

Where  our  frugal  meal  was  shared ; 
For  the  song  of  praises  there 

Shrieks  the  crow  the  livelong  day, 
For  the  sound  of  evening  prayer 

Howls  the  evil  beast  of  prey  ! 

Sweet  the  songs  we  loved  to  sing 

Underneath  Thy  holy  sky  — 
Words  and  tones  that  used  to  bring 

Tears  of  joy  in  every  eye,  — 
Dear  the  wrestling  hours  of  prayer, 

When  we  gathered  knee  to  knee, 
Blameless  youth  and  hoary  hair, 

Bow'd,  O  God,  alone  to  Thee. 

As  Thine  early  children,  Lord, 

Shared  their  wealth  and  daily  bread? 
Even  so,  with  one  accord, 

We,  in  love,  each  other  fed. 
Not  with  us  the  miser's  hoard, 

Not  with  us  his  grasping  hand ; 
Equal  round  a  common  board, 

Drew  our  meek  and  brother  band! 


THE  FAMILIST'S  HYMN.  6? 

Safe  our  quiet  Eden  lay 

When  the  war-whoop  stirred  the  land, 
And  the  Indian  turn'd  away 

From  our  home  his  bloody  hand. 
Well  that  forest-ranger  saw, 

That  the  burthen  and  the  curse 
Of  the  white  man's  cruel  law 

Rested  also  upon  us. 

Torn  apart,  and  driven  forth 

To  our  toiling  hard  and  long, 
Father!  from  the  dust  of  earth 

Lift  we  still  our  grateful  song! 
Grateful  —  that  in  bonds  we  share 

In  Thy  love  which  maketh  free ; 
Joyful  —  that  the  wrongs  we  bear, 

Draw  us  nearer,  Lord,  to  Thee! 

Grateful !  —  that  where'er  we  toil  — 

By  Wachusefs  wooded  side, 
On  Nantuckefs  sea-worn  isle, 

Or  by  wild  Neponset's  tide  — 
Still,  in  spirit,  we  are  near, 

And  our  evening  hymns  which  rise 
Separate  and  discordant  here, 

Meet  and  mingle  in  the  skies! 

Let  the  scoffer  scorn  and  mock, 

Let  the  proud  and  evil  priest 
Rob  the  needy  of  his  flock, 

For  his  wine-cup  and  his  feast,  — 


68  LEGENDARY. 

Redden  not  Thy  bolts  in  store 

Through  the  blackness  of  Thy  skies? 

For  the  sighing  of  the  poor 

Wilt  Thou  not,  at  length,  arise  ? 

Worn  and  wasted,  oh,  how  long 

Shall  Thy  trodden  poor  complain? 
In  Thy  name  they  bear  the  wrong, 

In  Thy  cause  the  bonds  of  pain! 
Melt  oppression's  heart  of  steel, 

Let  the  haughty  priesthood  see, 
And  their  blinded  followers  feel, 

That  in  us  they  mock  at  Thee! 

In  Thy  time,  O  Lord  of  hosts, 

Stretch  abroad  that  hand  to  save 
Which  of  old,  on  Egypt's  coasts, 

Smote  apart  the  Red  Sears  wave! 
Lead  us  from  this  evil  land, 

From  the  spoiler  set  us  free, 
And  once  more  our  gathered  band, 

Heart  to  heart,  shall  worship  Thee! 
1838. 

THE   FOUNTAIN. 

[On  the  declivity  of  a  hill,  in  Salisbury,  Essex  County,  is  a 
beautiful  fountain  of  clear  water,  gushing  out  from  the  very 
roots  of  a  majestic  and  venerable  oak.  It  is  about  two  miles 
from  the  junction  of  the  Powow  River  with  the  Merrimack.] 

TRAVELLER!  on  thy  journey  toiling 

By  the  swift  Powow, 
With  the  summer  sunshine  falling 

On  thy  heated  brow, 


THE  FOUNTAIN.  69 

Listen,  while  all  else  is  still 
To  the  brooklet  from  the  hill. 

Wild  and  sweet  the  flowers  are  blowing 

By  that  streamlet's  side, 
And  a  greener  verdure  showing 

Where  its  waters  glide  — 
Down  the  hill-slope  murmuring  on, 
Over  root  and  mossy  stone. 

Where  yon  oak  his  broad  arms  flingeth 

O'er  the  sloping  hill, 
Beautiful  and  freshly  springeth 

That  soft-flowing  rill, 
Through  its  dark  roots  wreatrTd  and  bare, 
Gushing  up  to  sun  and  air. 

Brighter  waters  sparkled  never 

In  that  magic  well, 
Of  whose  gift  of  life  for  ever 

Ancient  legends  tell,  — 
In  the  lonely  desert  wasted, 
And  by  mortal  lip  untasted. 

Waters  which  the  proud  Castilian l 

Sought  with  longing  eyes, 
Underneath  the  bright  pavilion 

Of  the  Indian  skies  ; 
Where  his  forest  pathway  lay 
Through  the  blooms  of  Florida. 

i  De  Soto,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  penetrated  into  the  wilds 
of  the  new  world  in  search  of  gold  and  the  fountain  of  perpetual 
youth. 


70  LEGENDARY. 

Years  ago  a  lonely  stranger, 

With  the  dusky  brow 
Of  the  outcast  forest-ranger, 

Crossed  the  swift  Powow  ; 
And  betook  him  to  the  rill, 
And  the  oak  upon  the  hill. 

O'er  his  face  of  moody  sadness 

For  an  instant  shone 
Something  like  a  gleam  of  gladness,, 

As  he  stooped  him  down 
To  the  fountain's  grassy  side 
And  his  eager  thirst  supplied. 

With  the  oak  its  shadow  throwing 

O'er  his  mossy  seat, 
And  the  cool,  sweet  waters  flowing 

Softly  at  his  feet, 
Closely  by  the  fountain's  rim 
That  lone  Indian  seated  him. 

Autumn's  earliest  frost  had  given 

To  the  woods  below 
Hues  of  beauty,  such  as  Heaven 

Lendeth  to  its  bow  ; 
And  the  soft  breeze  from  the  west 
Scarcely  broke  their  dreamy  rest. 

Far  behind  was  Ocean  striving 
With  his  chains  of  sand  ; 

Southward,  sunny  glimpses  giving, 
'T\vixt  the  swells  of  land, 


THE   FOUNTAIN  71 

Of  its  calm  and  silvery  track. 
Rolled  the  tranquil  Merrimack. 

Over  village,  wood  and  meadow, 

Gazed  that  stranger  man 
Sadly,  till  the  twilight  shadow 

Over  all  things  ran, 
Save  where  spire  and  westward  pane 
Flashed  the  sunset  back  again. 

Gazing  thus  upon  the  dwelling 

Of  his  warrior  sires, 
Where  no  lingering  trace  was  telling 

Of  their  wigwam  fires, 
Who  the  gloomy  thoughts  might  know 
Of  that  wandering  child  of  woe  ? 

Naked  lay,  in  sunshine  glowing, 

Hills  that  once  had  stood, 
Down  their  sides  the  shadows  throwing 

Of  a  mighty  wood, 
Where  the  deer  his  covert  kept, 
And  the  eagle's  pinion  swept ! 

Where  the  birch  canoe  had  glided 

Down  the  swift  Powow, 
Dark  and  gloomy  bridges  strided 

Those  clear  waters  now  ; 
And  where  once  the  beaver  swam, 
Jarred  the  wheel  and  frowned  the  dam 

For  the  wood-bird's  merry  singing, 
And  the  hunter's  cheer, 


72  LEGENDARY. 

Iron  clang  and  hammer's  ringing 

Smote  upon  his  ear ; 
And  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 
From  the  blackened  forges  broke. 

Could  it  be,  his  fathers  ever 

Loved  to  linger  here? 
These  bare  hills  —  this  conquer'd  river 

Could  they  hold  them  dear, 
With  their  native  loveliness 
Tamed  and  tortured  into  this  ? 

Sadly,  as  the  shades  of  even 

Gathered  o'er  the  hill, 
While  the  western  half  of  Heaven 

Blushed  with  sunset  still, 
From  the  fountain's  mossy  seat 
Turned  the  Indian's  weary  feet. 

Year  on  year  hath  flown  for  ever, 

But  he  came  no  more 
To  the  hill-side  or  the  river 

Where  he  came  before. 
But  the  villager  can  tell 
Of  that  strange  man's  visit  well. 

And  the  merry  children,  laden 

With  their  fruits  or  flowers- — 
Roving  boy  and  laughing  maiden, 

In  their  school-day  hours, 
Love  the  simple  tale  to  tell 
Of  the  Indian  and  his  well. 
1837- 


THE  EXILES.  73 


THE  EXILES. 

[The  incidents  upon  which  the  following  ballad  has  its 
foundation,  occurred  about  the  year  1660.  Thomas  Macey  was 
one  of  the  first,  if  not  the  first  white  settler  of  Nantucket.  A 
quaint  description  of  his  singular  and  perilous  voyage,  in  his 
own  hand-writing,  is  still  preserved.] 

THE  goodman  sat  beside  his  door 

One  sultry  afternoon, 
With  his  young  wife  singing  at  his  side 

An  old  and  goodly  tune. 

A  glimmer  of  heat  was  in  the  air, — 
The  dark  green  woods  were  still ; 

And  the  skirts  of  a  heavy  thunder-cloud 
Hung  over  the  western  hill. 

Black,  thick,  and  vast,  arose  that  cloud 

Above  the  wilderness, 
As  some  dark  world  from  upper  air 

Were  stooping  over  this. 

At  times  a  solemn  thunder  pealed, 

And  all  was  still  again, 
Save  a  low  murmur  in  the  air 

Of  coming  wind  and  rain. 

Just  as  the  first  big  rain-drop  fell, 

A  weary  stranger  came, 
And  stood  before  the  farmer's  door, 

With  travel  soiled  and  lame. 


74  LEGENDARY. 

Sad  seemed  he,  yet  sustaining  hope 

Was  in  his  quiet  glance, 
And  peace,  like  autumn's  moonlight,  clothed 

His  tranquil  countenance. 


A  look,  like  that  his  Master  wore 

In  Pilate's  council-hall: 
It  told  of  wrongs  —  but  of  a  love 

Meekly  forgiving  all. 

"Friend!  wilt  thou  give  me  shelter  here?'* 

The  stranger  meekly  said  ; 
And,  leaning  on  his  oaken  staff, 

The  goodman's  features  read. 

"  My  life  is  hunted  —  evil  men 

Are  following  in  my  track  ; 
The  traces  of  the  torturer's  whip 

Are  on  my  aged  back. 

"  And  much,  I  fear,  'twill  peril  thee 

Within  thy  doors  to  take 
A  hunted  seeker  of  the  Truth, 

Oppressed  for  conscience1  sake." 

Oh,  kindly  spoke  the  goodman's  wife  — 
"Come  in,  old  man!"  quoth  she, — 

u  We  will  not  leave  thee  to  the  storm. 
Whoever  thou  may'st  be." 


TIII-:  i-:xii  ES.  75 

Then  came  the  aged  wanderer  in, 

And  silent  sat  him  down ; 
While  all  within  grew  dark  as  night 

Beneath  the  storm-cloud's  frown. 


Hut  while  the  sudden  lightning's  bla/e 

Filled  every  cottage  nook, 
And  with  the  jarring  thunder-roll 

The  loosened  casement  shook, 


A  heavy  tramp  of  horses1  feet 

Came  sounding  up  the  lane, 
And  half  a  score  of  horse,  or  more, 

Came  plunging  through  the  rain. 

"  Now,  Goodman  Macey,  ope  thy  door,  — 
We  would  not  be  house-breakers ; 

A  rueful  deed  thou'st  done  this  day, 
In  harboring  banished  Quakers." 

Out  looked  the  cautious  goodman  then, 

With  much  of  fear  and  awe. 
For  there,  with  broad  wig  drenched  with  rain, 

The  parish  priest  he  saw. 

•'  Open  thy  door,  thou  wicked  man, 

And  let  thy  pastor  in, 
And  give  (iod  thanks,  if  forty  stripes 

Repay  thy  deadly  sin." 


76  LEGENDARY. 

"  What  seek  ye  ?  "  quoth  the  goodman,  — 

"  The  stranger  is  my  guest ; 
He  is  worn  with  toil  and  grievous  wrong,  - 

Pray  let  the  old  man  rest." 


"  Now,  out  upon  thee,  canting  knave!  " 
And  strong  hands  shook  the  door, 

"  Believe  me,  Macey,"  quoth  the  priest, 
"Thou'lt  rue  thy  conduct  sore.1' 

Then  kindled  Macey's  eye  of  fire  : 
"  No  priest  who  walks  the  earth, 

Shall  pluck  away  the  stranger-guest 
Made  welcome  to  my  hearth.1' 

Down  from  his  cottage  wall  he  caught 

The  matchlock,  hotly  tried 
At  Preston-pans  and  Marston-moor, 

By  fiery  Ireton's  side  ; 


Where  Puritan,  and  Cavalier, 

With  shout  and  psalm  contended ; 

And  Rupert's  oath,  and  Cromwell's  prayer, 
With  battle-thunder  blended. 


Up  rose  the  ancient  stranger  then  : 

"  My  spirit  is  not  free 
To  bring  the  wrath  and  violence 

Of  evil  men  on  thee  : 


THE   EXILES.  77 

"  And  for  thyself,  I  pray  forbear,  — 

Bethink  thee  of  thy  Lord. 
Who  healed  again  the  smitten  ear, 

And  sheathed  his  follower's  sword. 


"  I  go,  as  to  the  slaughter  led : 

Friends  of  the  poor,  farewell!  " 
Beneath  his  hand  the  oaken  door 

I'.ack  on  its  hinges  fell. 

"  Come  forth,  old  gray-beard,  yea  and  nay  ;  " 

The  reckless  scoffers  cried, 
As  to  a  horseman's  saddle-bow 

The  old  man's  arms  were  tied. 


And  of  his  bondage  hard  and  long 

In  Boston's  crowded  jail, 
Where  suffering  woman's  prayer  was  heard, 

With  sickening  childhood's  wail, 


It  suits  not  with  our  tale  to  tell : 
Those  scenes  have  passed  away  — 

Let  the  dim  shadows  of  the  past 
Brood  o'er  that  evil  day. 

"  Ho,  sheriff  ! "  quoth  the  ardent  priest 
"  Take  goodman  Macey  too  ; 

The  sin  of  this  day's  heresy. 
His  back  or  purse  shall  rue." 


LEGENDARY. 

And  priest  and  sheriff,  both  together 

Upon  his  threshold  stood, 
When  Macey,  through  another  door, 

Sprang  out  into  the  wood. 

"Now,  goodwife,  haste  thee!"  Macey  criec\ 
She  caught  his  manly  arm  :  — 

Behind,  the  parson  urged  pursuit, 
With  outcry  and  alarm. 

Ho!  speed  the  Maceys,  neck  or  naught, — 

The  river  course  was  near :  — 
The  plashing  on  its  pebbled  shore 

Was  music  to  their  ear. 


A  gray  rock,  tasselled  o'er  with  birch, 

Above  the  waters  hung. 
And  at  its  base,  with  every  wave, 

A  small  light  wherry  swung. 


A  leap —  they  gain  the  boat  —  and  there 
The  goodman  wields  his  oar : 

"  111  luck  betide  them  all  "  —  he  cried,  — 
"  The  laggards  upon  the  shore." 

Down  through  the  crashing  under-wood, 

The  burly  sheriff  came  :  — 
"Stand,  goodman  Macey  —  yield  thyself; 

Yield  in  the  King's  own  name." 


Tin-:  EXILES.  79 


l(  Now  out  upon  thy  hangman's  face ! " 
Bold  Macey  answered  then. — 

"  Whip  women,  on  the  village  green, 
But  meddle  not  with  men." 


The  priest  came  panting  to  the  shore, — 
His  grave  cocked  hat  was  gone  : 

Behind  him,  like  some  owl's  nest,  hung 
His  wig  upon  a  thorn. 


"Come  back  —  come  back!"  the  parsonxried, 

"The  church's  curse  beware.'' 
"  Curse  an  thou  wilt,"  said  Macey,  "  but 

Thy  blessing  prithee  spare." 

"  Vile  scoffer! "  cried  the  baffled  priest,— 

"  Thou'lt  yet  the  gallows  see." 
••  Who's  born  to  be  hanged,  will  not  be  drowned," 

Quoth  Macey  merrily ; 

"And  so,  sir  sheriff  and  priest,  good  bye!" 

He  bent  him  to  his  oar, 
And  the  small  boat  glided  quietly 

From  the,  twain  upon  the  shore. 

Now  in  the  west,  the  heavy  clouds 

Scattered  and  fell  asunder, 
While  feebler  came  the  rush  of  rain, 

And  fainter  growled  the  thunder. 


80  LEGENDARY. 

And  through  the  broken  clouds,  the  sun 
Looked  out  serene  and  warm, 

Painting  its  holy  symbol-light 
Upon  the  passing  storm. 

Oh,  beautiful!  that  rainbow  span, 
O'er  dim  Crane-neck  was  bended  ;  — 

One  bright  foot  touched  the  eastern  hills, 
And  one  with  ocean  blended. 


By  green  Pentucket's  southern  slope 
The  small  boat  glided  fast,  — 

The  watchers  of  "  the  Block-house  "  saw 
The  strangers  as  they  passed. 

That  night  a  stalwart  garrison 

Sat  shaking  in  their  shoes, 
To  hear  the  dip  of  Indian  oars,  — 

The  glide  of  birch  canoes. 

The  fisher-wives  of  Salisbury, 

(The  men  were  all  away), 
Looked  out  to  see  the  stranger  oar 

Upon  their  waters  play. 

Deer-Island's  rocks  and  fir-trees  threw 
Their  sunset-shadows  o'er  them, 

And  Newbury's  spire  and  weathercock 
Peered  o'er  the  pines  before  them. 


THE   EXILES.  8 1 

Around  the  Black  Rocks,  on  their  left. 

The  marsh  lay  broad  and  green  ; 
And  on  their  right,  with  chvarf  shrubs  crowned, 

Plum  Island's  hills  were  seen. 


With  skilful  hand  and  wary  eye 
The  harbor-bar  was  crossed  ;  — 

A  plaything  of  the  restless  wave, 
The  boat  on  ocean  tossed. 

The  glory  of  the  sunset  heaven 

On  land  and  water  lay,  — 
On  the  steep  hills  of  Agawam, 

On  cape,  and  bluff,  and  bay. 

They  passed  the  gray  rocks  of  Cape  Ann, 
And  Gloucester's  harbor-bar ; 

The  watch-fire  of  the  garrison 
Shone  like  a  setting  star. 

How  brightly  broke  the  morning 

On  Massachusetts'  Bay! 
Blue  wave,  and  bright  green  island, 

Rejoicing  in  the  day. 

On  passed  the  bark  in  safety 

Round  isle  and  headland  steep  — 

No  tempest  broke  above  them. 
No  fog-cloud  veiled  the  deep. 


82  LEGENDARY, 

Far  round  the  bleak  and  stormy  Cape 
The  vent'rous  Macey  passed, 

And  on  Nantuckefs  naked  isle, 
Drew  up  his  boat  at  last. 

And  how,  in  log-built  cabin, 

They  braved  the  rough  sea-weather 

And  there,  in  peace  and  quietness, 
Went  down  life's  vale  together : 

How  others  drew  around  them, 
And  how  their  fishing  sped, 

Until  to  every  wind  of  heaven 
Nantuckef  s  sails  were  spread  : 

How  pale  want  alternated 
With  plenty's  golden  smile  ; 

Behold,  is  it  not  written 
In  the  annals  of  the  isle? 


And  yet  that  isle  remaineth 
A  refuge  of  the  free, 

As  when  true-hearted  Macey 
Beheld  it  from  the  sea. 


Free  as  the  winds  that  winnow 
Her  shrubless  hills  of  sand  — 

Free  as  the  waves  that  batter 
Along  her  yielding  land. 


THE   NEW    WIFE   AXD    THE    OLD.       8; 

Than  hers,  at  duty's  summons, 

No  loftier  spirit  stirs,  — 
Nor  falls  o'er  human  suffering 

A  readier  tear  than  hers. 

God  bless  the  sea-beat  island!  — 

And  grant  for  evermore, 
That  charity  and  freedom  dwell, 

As  now  upon  her  shore ! 
1841. 


THE  NEW  WIFE  AND  THE  OLD. 

[The  following  Ballad  is  founded  upon  one  of  the  marvel 
lous  legends  connected  with  the  famous  General  M.,  of 
Hampton,  N.H.,  who  was  regarded  by  his  neighbors  as  a 
Yankee  Faust,  in  league  with  the  adversary.  I  give  the  story, 
as  I  heard  it  when  a  child,  from  a  venerable  family  visitant.] 

DARK  the  halls,  and  cold  the  feast  — 
Gone  the  bridesmaids,  gone  the  priest! 
All  is  over  —  all  is  done. 
Twain  of  yesterday  are  one ! 
Blooming  girl  and  manhood  gray, 
Autumn  in  the  arms  of  May! 

Hushed  within  and  hushed  without, 
Dancing  feet  and  wrestlers1  shout ; 
Dies  the  bonfire  on  the  hill ; 
All  is  dark  and  all  is  still, 


84  LEGENDARY. 

Save  the  starlight,  save  the  breeze 
Moaning  through  the  grave-yard  trees  ; 
And  the  great  sea-waves  below, 
Like  the  night's  pulse,  beating  slow. 

From  the  brief  dream  of  a  bride 
She  hath  wakened,  at  his  side. 
With  half  uttered  shriek  and  start  — 
Feels  she  not  his  beating  heart  ? 
And  the  pressure  of  his  arm, 
And  his  breathing  near  and  warm  ? 

Lightly  from  the  bridal  bed 
Springs  that  fair  dishevelled  head, 
And  a  feeling,  new,  intense^ 
Half  of  shame,  half  innocence, 
Maiden  fear  and  wonder  speaks 
Through  her  lips  and  changing  cheeks. 

From  the  oaken  mantel  glowing 
Faintest  light  the  lamp  is  throwing 
On  the  mirror's  antique  mould, 
High-backed  chair,  and  wainscot  old, 
And,  through  faded  curtains  stealing, 
His  dark  sleeping  face  revealing. 

Listless  lies  the  strong  man  there, 
Silver-streaked  his  careless  hair ; 
Lips  of  love  have  left  no  trace 
On  that  hard  and  haughty  face  ; 
And  that  forehead's  knitted  thought 
Love's  soft  hand  hath  not  urwrought. 


THE   NEW    WIFE  AND    THE    OLD.        85 

"  Yet,"  she  sighs,  "  he  loves  me  well, 
More  than  these  calm  lips  will  tell 
Stooping  to  my  lowly  state, 
He  hath  made  me  rich  and  great, 
And  I  bless  him,  though  he  be 
Hard  and  stern  to  all  save  me!" 

While  she  speaketh,  falls  the  light 
O'er  her  fingers  small  and  white; 
Gold  and  gem,  and  costly  ring 
Back  the  timid  lustre  fling  — 
Love's  selectest  gifts,  and  rare, 
His  proud  hand  had  fastened  there. 

Gratefully  she  marks  the  glow 
From  those  tapering  lines  of  snow ; 
Fondly  o'er  the  sleeper  bending 
His  black  hair  with  golden  blending, 
In  her  soft  and  light  caress, 
Cheek  and  lip  together  press. 

Ha !  —  that  start  of  horror !  —  Why 
That  wild  stare  and  wilder  cry, 
Full  of  terror,  full  of  pain  ? 
Is  there  madness  in  her  brain? 
Hark!  that  gasping,  hoarse  and  low: 
' '  Spare  me  —  spare  me  —  let  me  go !  " 

God  have  mercy!—  Icy  cold 
Spectral  hands  her  own  enfold, 
Drawing  silently  from  them 
Love's  fair  gifts  of  gold  and  gem, 


86  LEGENDARY. 

"  Waken !  save  me !  "  still  as  death 
At  her  side  he  slumbereth. 

Ring  and  bracelet  all  are  gone, 
And  that  ice-cold  hand  withdrawn ; 
But  she  hears  a  murmur  low, 
Full  of  sweetness,  full  of  woe, 
Half  a  sigh  and  half  a  moan  : 
"Fear  not!  give  the  dead  her  own!  " 

Ah!  —  the  dead  wife's  voice  she  knows! 
That  cold  hand  whose  pressure  froze, 
Once  in  warmest  life  had  borne 
Gem  and  band  her  own  hath  worn. 
"  Wake  thee !  wake  thee !  "     Lo,  his  eyes 
Open  with  a  dull  surprise. 

In  his  arms  the  strong  man  folds  her, 
Closer  to  his  breast  he  holds  her ; 
Trembling  limbs  his  own  are  meeting, 
And  he  feels  her  heart's  quick  beating : 
"Nay,  my  dearest,  why  this  fear?" 
<•'  Hush!  "  she  saith,  "  the  dead  is  here!  " 

"Nay,  a  dream  —  an  idle  dream." 
But  before  the  lamp's  pale  gleam 
Tremblingly  her  hand  she  raises,  — 
There  no  more  the  diamond  blazes, 
Clasp  of  pearl,  or  ring  of  gold,  — 
"Ah!"  she  sighs,  "her  hand  was  cold!" 


THE  XI:  \\'   II' //•/•:   AND    THE    OLD.        87 

Broken  words  of  cheer  he  saith, 

But  his  dark  lip  quivereth. 

And  as  o'er  the  past  he  thinketh. 

From  his  young  wife's  arms  he  shrinketh  ; 

Can  those  soft  arms  round  him  lie, 

Underneath  his  dead  wife's  eye? 

She  her  fair  young  head  can  rest 

Soothed  and  child-like  on  his  breast, 

And  in  trustful  innocence 

Draw  new  strength  and  courage  thence; 

He,  the  proud  man,  feels  within 

But  the  cowardice  of  sin ! 


She  can  murmur  in  her  thought 
Simple  prayers  her  mother  taught, 
And  His  blessed  angels  call, 
Whose  great  love  is  over  all ; 
He,  alone,  in  prayerless  pride, 
Meets  the  dark  Past  at  her  side! 


One,  who  living  shrank  with  dread, 
From  his  look,  or  word,  or  tread, 
Unto  whom  her  early  grave 
Was  as  freedom  to  the  slave, 
Moves  him  at  this  midnight  hour, 
With  the  dead's  unconscious  power! 

Ah,  the  dead,  the  unforgot! 

From  their  solemn  homes  of  though^ 


88  LEGENDARY. 

Where  the  cypress  shadows  blend 
Darkly  over  foe  and  friend, 
Or  in  love  or  sad  rebuke, 
Back  upon  the  living  look. 

And  the  tenderest  ones  and  weakest, 
Who  their  wrongs  have  borne  the  meekest, 
Lifting  from  those  dark,  still  places, 
Sweet  and  sad-remembered  faces, 
O'er  the  guilty  hearts  behind 
An  unwitting  triumph  find. 
1843. 


VOICES    OF    FREEDOM. 


THE  SLAVE  SHIPS. 

"  That  fatal,  that  perfidious  bark, 
Built  i'  the  eclipse,  and  rigged  with  curses  dark." 

Milton 's  Lye  id  as. 

[The  French  ship  LE  RODEUR,  with  a  crew  of  twenty-two 
men,  and  with  one  hundred  and  sixty  negro  slaves,  sailed  from 
Bonny,  in  Africa,  April,  1819.  On  approaching  the  line,  a 
terrible  malady  broke  out  —  an  obstinate  disease  of  the  eyes  — 
contagious,  and  altogether  beyond  the  resources  of  medicine. 
It  was  aggravated  by  the  scarcity  of  water  among  the  slaves 
(only  half  a  wine-glass  per  day  being  allowed  to  an  individual), 
and  by  the  extreme  impurity  of  the  air  in  which  they  breathed. 
By  the  advice  of  the  physician,  they  were  brought  upon  deck 
occasionally  ;  but  some  of  the  poor  wretches,  locking  themselves 
in  each  other's  arms,  leaped  overboard,  in  the  hope,  which  so 
universally  prevails  among  them,  of  being  swiftly  transported 
to  their  own  homes  in  Africa.  To  check  this,  the  captain 
ordered  several,  who  were  stopped  in  the  attempt,  to  be  shot, 
or  hanged,  before  their  companions.  The  disease  extended  to 
the  crew ;  and  one  after  another  were  smitten  with  it,  until 
only  one  remained  unaffected.  Yet  even  this  dreadful  condition 
did  not  preclude  calculation  :  to  save  the  expense  of  supporting 
slaves  rendered  unsalable,  and  to  obtain  grounds  for  a  claim 
against  the  underwriters,  thirty-six  of  the  negroes,  having 
become  blind,  -were  thrown  into  the  sea  and  drowned ! 

89 


90  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

In  the  midst  of  their  dreadful  fears  lest  the  solitary  indi 
vidual,  whose  sight  remained  unaffected,  should  also  be  seized 
with  the  malady,  a  sail  was  discovered.  It  was  the  Spanish 
slaver,  LEON.  The  same  disease  had  been  there ;  and,  horrible 
to  tell,  all  the  crew  had  become  blind!  Unable  to  assist  each 
other,  the  vessels  parted.  The  Spanish  ship  has  never  since 
been  heard  of.  The  RODEUR  reached  Guadaloupe  on  the  2ist 
of  June ;  the  only  man  who  had  escaped  the  disease,  and  had 
thus  been  enabled  to  steer  the  slaver  into  port,  caught  it  in 
three  days  after  its  arrival. —  Speech  of  M.  Benjamin  Constant, 
in  the  French  Chamber  of  Deputies,  June  17,  1820.] 

"  ALL  ready  ?  "  cried  the  captain ; 

"  Ay,  ay !  "  the  seamen  said  ; 
"  Heave  up  the  worthless  lubbers  — 

The  dying  and  the  dead." 
Up  from  the  slave-ship's  prison 

Fierce,  bearded  heads  were  thrust  — 
"  Now  let  the  sharks  look  to  it  — 

Toss  up  the  dead  ones  first!" 

Corpse  after  corpse  came  up,  — 

Death  had  been  busy  there; 
Where  every  blow  is  mercy, 

Why  should  the  spoiler  spare? 
Corpse  after  corpse  they  cast 

Sullenly  from  the  ship, 
Yet  bloody  with  the  traces 

Of  fetter-link  and  whip. 

Gloomily  stood  the  captain, 

With  his  arms  upon  his  breast, 
With  his  cold  brow  sternly  knotted, 

And  his  iron  lip  compressed. 


THE  SLAVE  SHIPS.  91 

"  Are  all  the  dead  dogs  over? " 

Growled  through  that  matted  lip  — 

"The  blind  ones  are  no  better, 
Let's  lighten  the  good  ship." 

Hark !  from  the  ship's  dark  bosom, 

The  very  sounds  of  hell ! 
The  ringing  clank  of  iron  — 

The  maniac's  short,  sharp  yell!  — 
The  hoarse,  low  curse,  throat-stifled  — 

The  starving  infant's  moan  — 
The  horror  of  a  breaking  heart 

Poured  through  a  mother's  groan ! 

Up  from 'that  loathsome  prison 

The  stricken  blind  ones  came : 
Below,  had  all  been  darkness  — 

Above,  was  still  the  same. 
Yet  the  holy  breath  of  heaven 

Was  sweetly  breathing  there, 
And  the  heated  brow  of  fever 

Cooled  in  the  soft  sea  air. 

"Overboard  with  them,  shipmates!" 

Cu'ilass  and  dirk  were  plied ; 
Fettered  and  blind,  one  after  one, 

Plunged  down  the  vessel's  side. 
The  sabre  smote  above  — 

Beneath,  the  lean  shark  lay, 
Waiting  with  wide  and  bloody  jaw 

His  quick  and  human  prey. 


Q2  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

God  of  the  earth !  what  cries 

Rang  upward  unto  Thee  ? 
Voices  of  agony  and  blood, 

From  ship-deck  and  from  sea. 
The  last  dull  plunge  was  heard  — 

The  last  wave  caught  its  stain  — 
And  the  unsated  shark  looked  up 

For  human  hearts  in  vain. 


Red  glowed  the  western  waters  — 

The  setting  sun  was  there, 
Scattering  alike  on  wave  and  cloud 

His  fiery  mesh  of  hair. 
Amidst  a  group  in  blindness, 

A  solitary  eye 
Gazed,  from  the  burdened  slaver's  deck, 

Into  that  burning  sky. 

"  A  storm,11  spoke  out  the  gazer, 

"  Is  gathering  and  at  hand  — 
Curse  on?t  —  I'd  give  my  other  eye 

For  one  firm  rood  of  land.11 
And  then  he  laughed  —  but  only 

His  echoed  laugh  replied  — 
For  the  blinded  and  the  suffering 

Alone  were  at  his  side. 

Night  settled  on  the  waters, 

And  on  a  stormy  heaven, 
While  fiercely  on  that  lone  ship^  track 

The  thunder-gust  was  driven. 


THE   SLAVE   SHIPS.  93 

"A  sail!— thank  God,  a  sail!" 

And,  as  the  helmsman  spoke, 
Up  through  the  stormy  murmur, 

A  shout  of  gladness  broke. 

Down  came  the  stranger  vessel 

Unheeding  on  her  \vay, 
So  near,  that  on  the  slaver's  deck 

Fell  off  her  driven  spray. 
"Ho!  for  the  love  of  mercy  — 

We're  perishing  and  blind!  " 
A  wail  of  utter  agony 

Came  back  upon  the  wind  : 

**  Help  us  I  for  we  are  stricken 

With  blindness  every  one  ; 
Ten  days  we've  floated  fearfully, 

Unnoting  star  or  sun. 
Our  ship's  the  slaver  Leon  — 

We've  but  a  'score  on  board  — 
Our  slaves  are  all  gone  over  — 

Help  — for  the  love  of  God!" 

On  livid  brows  of  agony 

The  broad  red  lightning  shone - 
But  the  roar  of  wind  and  thunder 

Stifled  the  answering  groan. 
Wailed  from  the  broken  waters 

A  last  despairing  cry, 
As,  kindling  in  the  stormy  light, 

The  stranger  ship  went  by. 


94  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

In  the  sunny  Guadaloupe 

A  dark-hulled  vessel  lay  — 
With  a  crew  who  noted  never 

The  night-fall  or  the  day. 
The  blossom  of  the  orange 

Was  white  by  every  stream, 
And  tropic  leaf,  and  flower,  and  bird 

Were  in  the  warm  sun-beam. 

And  the  sky  was  bright  as  ever, 

And  the  moonlight  slept  as  well, 
On  the  palm  trees  by  the  hill-side, 

And  the  streamlet  of  the  dell ; 
And  the  glances  of  the  Creole 

Were  still  as  archly  deep, 
And  her  smiles  as  full  as  ever 

Of  passion  and  of  sleep. 

But  vain  were  bird  and  blossom, 

The  green  earth  and  the  sky, 
And  the  smile  of  human  faces, 

To  the  slaver's  darkened  eye  ; 
At  the  breaking  of  the  morning, 

At  the  star-lit  evening  time, 
O'er  a  world  of  light  and  beauty, 

Fell  the  blackness  of  his  crime. 

1834- 


OUR   COUNTRYMEN  IN  CHAINS.        95 


STANZAS. 

["  The  despotism  which  our  fathers  could  not  bear  in  their 
native  country  is  expiring,  and  the  sword  of  justice  in  her  re 
formed  hands  has  applied  its  exterminating  edge  to  slavery. 
Shall  the  United  States  —  the  free  United  States,  which  could 
not  bear  the  bonds  of  a  king,  cradle  the  bondage  which  a  king 
is  abolishing?  Shall  a  Republic  be  less  free  than  a  Monarchy? 
Shall  we,  in  the  vigor  and  buoyancy  of  our  manhood,  be  less 
energetic  in  righteousness  than  a  kingdom  in  its  age?  "  —  Dr. 
Fallens  Address. 

"  Genius  of  America !  —  Spirit  of  our  free  institutions — where 
art  thou?  —  How  art  thou  fallen,  O  Lucifer !  son  of  the  morning 
—  how  art  thou  fallen  from  Heaven  !  Hell  from  beneath  is 
moved  for  thee,  to  meet  thee  at  thy  coming!  —  The  kings  of 
the  earth  cry  out  to  thee,  Aha!  Aha! — ART  THOU  BECOME 
LIKE  UNTO  US  ?  " —  Speech  of  Samuel  J.  May.] 

OUR  fellow-countrymen  in  chains! 

Slaves  —  in  a  land  of  light  and  law! 
Slaves  —  crouching  on  the  very  plains 

Where  rolled  the  storm  of  Freedom's  war! 
A  groan  from  Eutaw's  haunted  wood  — 

A  wail  where  Camden's  martyrs  fell  — 
By  every  shrine  of  patriot  blood, 

From  Moultrie's  wall  and  Jasper's  well! 


By  storied  hill  and  hallowed  grot, 
By  mossy  wood  and  marshy  glen, 

Whence  rang  of  old  the  rifle-shot, 
And  hurrying  shout  of  Marion's  men.' 


96  VOICES   OF  FREED  OAT. 

The  groan  of  breaking  hearts  is  there  — 
The  falling  lash  — the  fetter's  clank; 

Slaves  —  SLAVES  are  breathing  in  that  air, 
Which  old  De  Kalb  and  Sumter  drank! 

What,  ho! — our  countrymen  in  chains! 

The  whip  on  WOMAN'S  shrinking  flesh! 
Our  soil  yet  reddening  with  the  stains, 

Caught  from  her  scourging,  warm  and  fresh ! 
What!  mothers  from  their  children  riven! 

What !  God's  own  image  bought  and  sold ! 
AMERICANS  to  market  driven, 

And  bartered  as  the  brute  for  gold ! 

Speak !  shall  their  agony  of  prayer 

Come  thrilling  to  our  hearts  in  vain  ? 
To  us  whose  fathers  scorned  to  bear 

The  paltry  menace  of  a  chain  ; 
To  us,  whose  boast  is  loud  and  long 

Of  holy  Liberty  and  Light  — 
Say,  shall  these  writhing  slaves  of  Wrong 

Plead  vainly  for  their  plundered  Right  ? 

What!  shall  we  send,  with  lavish  breath. 

Our  sympathies  across  the  wave, 
Where  Manhood,  on  the  field  of  death, 

Strikes  for  his  freedom,  or  a  grave  ? 
Shall  prayers  go  up,  and  hymns  be  sung 

For  Greece,  the  Moslem  fetter  spurning, 
And  millions  hail  with  pen  and  tongue 

Our  light  on  her  altars  burning? 


OUR   COUNTRYMEN  IN  CHAINS.        97 

Shall  Belgium  feel,  and  gallant  France, 

By  Vend6mejs  pile  and  Schoenbrun's  wall 
And  Poland,  gasping  on  her  lance, 

The  impulse  of  our  cheering  call? 
And  shall  the  SLAVE,  beneath  our  eye, 

Clank  o'er  our  fields  his  hateful  chain? 
And  toss  his  fettered  arms  on  high, 

And  groan  for  Freedom's  gift,  in  vain? 

Oh,  say,  shall  Prussia's  banner  be 

A  refuge  for  the  stricken  slave  ? 
And  shall  the  Russian  serf  go  free 

By  Baikal's  lake  and  Neva's  wave  ? 
And  shall  the  wintry-bosomed  Dane 

Relax  the  iron  hand  of  pride, 
And  bid  his  bondman  cast  the  chain 

From  fettered  soul  and  limb,  aside  ? 

Shall  every  flap  of  England's  flag 

Proclaim  that  all  around  are  free, 
From  "farthest  Ind"  to  each  blue  crag 

That  be'etles  o'er  the  Western  Sea? 
And  shall  we  scoff  at  Europe's  kings, 

When  Freedom's  fire  is  dim  with  us, 
And  round  our  country's  altar  clings 

The  damning  shade  of  Slavery's  curse  ? 

Go  —  let  us  ask  of  Constantine 

To  loose  his  grasp  on  Poland's  throat ; 

And  beg  the  lord  of  Mahmoud's  line 
To  spare  the  struggling  Suliote  — 


98  .         VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

Will  not  the  scorching  answer  come 
From  turbaned  Turk,  and  scornful  Russ  i 

"  Go,  loose  your  fettered  slaves  at  home, 
Then  turn,  and  ask  the  like  of  us! " 

Just  God!  and  shall  we  calmly  rest, 

The  Christian's  scorn  —  the  heathen's  mirth- 
Content  to  live  the  lingering  jest 

And  by-word  of  a  mocking  Earth  ? 
Shall  our  own  glorious  land  retain 

That  curse  which  Europe  scorns  to  bear? 
Shall  our  own  brethren  drag  the  chain 

Which  not  even  Russia's  menials  wear? 

Up,  then,  in  Freedom's  manly  part, 

From  gray-beard  eld  to  fiery  youth, 
And  on  the  nation's  naked  heart 

Scatter  the  living  coals  of  Truth ! 
Up  —  while  ye  slumber,  deeper  yet 

The  shadow  of  our  fame  is  growing! 
Up  —  while  ye  pause,  our  sun  may  set 

In  blood,  around  our  altars  flowing! 

Oh !  rouse  ye,  ere  the  storm  comes  forth  — 

The  gathered  wrath  of  God  and  man  — 
Like  that  which  wasted  Egypt's  earth, 

When  hail  and  fire  above  it  ran. 
Hear  ye  no  warnings  in  the  air? 

Feel  ye  no  earthquake  underneath  ? 
Up  —  up — why  will  ye  slumber  where 

The  sleeper  only  wakes  in  death? 


THE    YANKEE    GIRL.  QQ 

Up  now  for  Freedom !  —  not  in  strife 

Like  that  your  sterner  fathers  saw  — 
The  awful  waste  of  human  life  — 

The  glory  and  the  guilt  of  war  : 
But  break  the  chain  —  the  yoke  remove, 

And  smite  to  earth  Oppression's  rod. 
With  those  mild  arms  of  Truth  and  Love, 

Made  mighty  through  the  living  God! 

Down  let  the  shrine  of  Moloch  sink, 

And  leave  no  traces  where  it  stood ; 
Nor  longer  let  its  idol  drink 

His  daily  cup  of  human  blood  : 
But  rear  another  altar  there, 

To  Truth  and  Love  and  Mercy  given, 
And  Freedom's  gift,  and  Freedom's  prayer, 

Shall  call  an  answer  down  from  Heaven! 
1834. 


THE   YANKEE   GIRL. 

SHE  sings  at  her  wheel,  at  that  low  cottage-door, 
Which  the  long  evening  shadow  is  stretching  before, 
With  a  music  as  sweet  as  the  .music  which  seems    ,  x 
Breathed  softly  and  faint  in  the  ear  of  our  dreams ! 

*-/  \j       —   \  V     ^ 

How  brilliant  and  mirtMful  the  light  of  her  eye, 

Like  a  star  glancing  out  from  the  blue  of  the  sky! 
And  lightly  and  freely  her  dark  tresses  play 
O'er  a  brow  and  a  bosom  as  lovely  as  they! 


100  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

Who  comes  in  his  pride  to  that  low  cottage-door  — 

The  haughty  and  rich  to  the  humble  and  poor? 

'T  is  the   great   Southern  planter — the  master  who 

waves 
His  whip  of  dominion  o'er  hundreds  of  slaves. 

"  Nay,  Ellen  —  for  shame  !     Let  those  Yankee  fools 

spin, 
Who  would  pass  for  our  slaves  with   a  change    of 

their  skin ; 

Let  them  toil  as  they  will  at  the  loom  or  the  wheel, 
Too  stupid  for  shame,  and  too  vulgar  to  feel ! 

"  But  thou  art  too  lovely  and  precious  a  gem 
To  be  bound  to  their  burdens  and  sullied  by  them  — 
For  shame,  Ellen,  shame!  —  cast  thy  bondage  aside, 
And  away  to  the  South,  as  my  blessing  and  pride. 

"  Oh,  come  where  no  winter  thy  footsteps  can  wrong, 
But  where  flowers  are  blossoming  all  the  year  long, 
Where  the"  shade  of  the  palm-tree  is  over  my  home, 
And  the  lemon  and  orange  are  white  in  their  bloom ! 

"Oh,  come  to  my  home,  where  my  servants  shall  all 

Depart  at  thy  bidding  and  come  at  thy  call ; 

They  shall  heed  thee  as  mistress  with  trembling  and 

awe, 
And  each  wish  of  thy  heart  shall  be  felt  as  a  law." 

Oh,  could  ye  have  seen  her  —  that  pride  of  our  girls  — 
Arise  and  cast  back  the  dark  wealth  of  her  curls, 


TO    IV.  J..    G.  \  '  101 

With  a  scorn  in  her  eye  which  the  gazer  could  feel, 
And  a  glance  like  the  sunshine  that  flashes  on  steel! 

"  Go  back,  haughty  Southron  !  thy  treasures  of  gold 
Are  dim  with  the  blood  of  the  hearts  thou  hast  sold  ; 
Thy  home  may  be  lovely,  but  round  it  I  hear 
The  crack  of  the  whip  and  the  footsteps  of  fear! 

"  And  the  sky  of  thy  South  may  be  brighter  than 

ours, 

And  greener  thy  landscapes,  and  fairer  thy  flowers  ; 
But,  dearer  the   blast   round   our  mountains  which 

raves, 
Than  the  sweet  summer  zephyr  which  breathes  over 

slaves  ! 

"  Full  low  at  thy  bidding  thy  negroes  may  kneel. 
With  the  iron  of  bondage  on  spirit  and  heel  ; 
Yet  know  that  the  Yankee  girl  sooner  would  be 
In  fetters  with  them,  than  in  freedom  with  thee!" 


TO   W.    L.   G. 

CHAMPION  of  those  who  groan  beneath 

Oppression's  iron  hand  : 
In  view  of  penury,  hate,  and  death, 

I  see  thee  fearless  stand, 
Still  bearing  up  thy  lofty  brow, 

In  the  steadfast  strength  of  truth, 
In  manhood  sealing  well  the  vow 

And  promise  of  thy  youth. 


&F  FREED  OM. 

Go  on !  —  for  thou  hast  chosen  well ; 

On  in  the  strength  of  God! 
Long  as  one  human  heart  shall  swell 

Beneath  the  tyrant's  rod. 
Speak  in  a  slumbering  nation's  ear, 

As  thou  hast  ever  spoken, 
Until  the  dead  in  sin  shall  hear  — 

The  fetter's  link  be  broken ! 

I  love  thee  with  a  brother's  love, 

I  feel  my  pulses  thrill, 
To  mark  thy  spirit  soar  above 

The  cloud  of  human  ill. 
My  heart  hath  leaped  to  answer  thine? 

And  echo  back  thy  words. 
As  leaps  the  warrior's  at  the  shine 

And  flash  of  kindred  swords! 

They  tell  me  thou  art  rash  and  vain  — 

A  searcher  after  fame  — 
That  thou  art  striving  but  to  gain 

A  long-enduring  name  — 
That  thou  hast  nerved  the  Afric's  hand? 

And  steeled  the  Afric's  heart, 
To  shake  aloft  his  vengeful  brand, 

And  rend  his  chain  apart. 

Have  I  not  known  thee  well,  and  read 

Thy  mighty  purpose  long! 
And  watched  the  trials  which  have  made 

Thy  human  spirit  strong? 


SONG    OF   THE   FREE.  103 

And  shall  the  slanderer's  demon  breath 

Avail  with  one  like  me, 
To  dim  the  sunshine  of  my  faith 

And  earnest  trust  in  thee  ? 

Go  on  —  the  dagger's  point  may  glare 

Amid  thy  pathway's  gloom  — 
The  fate  which  sternly  threatens  there 

Is  glorious  martyrdom! 
Then  onward  with  a  martyr's  zeal  — 

Press  on  to  thy  reward  — 
The  hour  when  man  shall  only  kneel 

Before  his  Father — God. 

1833- 


SONG  OF   THE   FREE. 

["Living,  I  shall  assert  the  right  of  FREE  DISCUSSION; 
dying,  I  shall  assert  it ;  and,  should  I  leave  no  other  inherit 
ance  to  my  children,  by  the  blessing  of  God  I  will  leave  them 
the  inheritance  of  FRKK  1'RINCIPLES,  and  the  example  of  a 
manly  and  independent  defence  of  them."  —  Daniel  Webster.} 

PRIDE  of  New  England! 

Soul  of  our  fathers! 
Shrink  we  all  craven-like, 

When  the  storm  gathers? 
What  though  the  tempest  be 

Over  us  lowering, 
Where 's  the  New  Englander 

Shamefully  cowering  ? 


104  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

Graves  green  and  holy 
Around  us  are  lying, — 

Free  were  the  sleepers  all, 
Living  and  dying! 

Back  with  the  Southerner's 

Padlocks  and  scourges! 
Go  —  let  him  fetter  down 

Ocean's  free  surges! 
Go  —  let  him  silence 

Winds,  clouds,  and  waters^ 
Never  New  England's  own 

Free  sons  and  daughters! 
Free  as  our  rivers  are 

Oceanward  going  — 
Free  as  the  breezes  are 

Over  us  blowing. 

Up  to  our  altars,  then, 

Haste  we,  and  summon 
Courage  and  loveliness, 

Manhood  and  woman! 
Deep  let  our  pledges  be : 

Freedom  for  ever! 
Truce  with  oppression, 

Never,  oh!  never! 
By  our  own  birthright-gift, 

Granted  of  Heaven  — 
Freedom  for  heart  and  lip, 

Be  the  pledge  given! 

If  we  have  whispered  truth. 
Whisper  no  longer ; 


THI-:    lli'XTERS   OF  MEN.  1 05 

Speak  as  the  tempest  does, 

Sterner  and  stronger ; 
Still  be  the  tones  of  truth 

Louder  and  firmer, 
Startling  the  haughty  South 

With  the  deep  murmur : 
God  and  our  charter's  right, 

Freedom  for  ever! 
Truce  with  oppression, 

Never,  oh!  never! 
1836. 


THE    HUNTERS   OF   MEN. 

Written  on  reading  the  report  of  the  proceedings  of  the  Ameri 
can  Colonization  Society  at  its  annual  meeting  in  1834. 

HAVE  ye  heard  of  our  hunting,  o'er  mountain  and 

glen. 

Through  cane-brake  and  forest  —  the  limiting  of  men  ? 
The  lords  of  our  land  to  this  hunting  have  gone, 
As  the  fox-hunter  follows  the  sound  of  the  horn  : 
Hark!  — the  cheer  and  the  hallo!  — the  crack  of  the 

whip, 

And  the  yell  of  the  hound  as  he  fastens  his  grip! 
All  blithe  are  our  hunters,  and  noble  their  match  — 
Though  hundreds  are  caught,  there  are  millions  to 

catch. 

So  speed  to  their  hunting,  o'er  mountain  and  glen, 
Through   cane-brake   and    forest  — the    hunting    of 


106  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

Gay  luck  to  our  hunters!  —  how  nobly  they  ride 

In  the  glow  of  their  zeal,  in   the  strength   of  their 

pride !  — 

The  priest  with  his  cassock  flung  back  on  the  wind, 
Just  screening  the  politic  statesman  behind  — 
The  saint  and  the  sinner,  with  cursing  and  prayer  — 
The  drunk  and  the  sober,  ride  merrily  there. 
And  woman  —  kind  woman  —  wife,  widow,  and  maid  — 
For  the  good  of  the  hunted,  is  lending  her  aid  : 
Her  foot's  in  the  stirrup  —  her  hand  on  the  rein  — 
How  blithely  she  rides  to  the  hunting  of  men! 

Oh!  goodly  and  grand  is  our  hunting  to  see, 

In   this  "land    of  the  brave   and    this  home  of  the 

free." 
Priest,    warrior,    and    statesman,    from   Georgia   to 

Maine, 

All  mounting  the  saddle  —  all  grasping  the  rein  — 
Right  merrily  hunting  the  black  man,  whose  sin 
Is  the  curl  of  his  hair  and  the  hue  of  his  skin! 
Woe,  now,  to  the  hunted  who  turns  him  at  bay! 
Will  our  hunters  be  turned  from  their  purpose  and 

prey? 
Will  their   hearts   fail  within   them  ?  —  their   nerves 

tremble,  when 
All  roughly  they  ride  to  the  hunting  of  men? 

Ho!  —  ALMS  for  our  hunters!  all  weary  and  faint 
Wax  the  curse  of  the  sinner  and  prayer  of  the  saint. 
The  horn  is  wound  faintly  —  the  echoes  are  still, 
Over  cane-brake  and  river,  and  forest  and  hill. 


CLERICAL    OPPRESSORS. 


Haste  —  alms  for  our  hunters!  the  hunted  once  more 
Have  turned  from  their  flight  with  their  backs  to  the 

shore  : 

What  right  have  they  here  in  the  home  of  the  white. 
Shadowed    o'er  by   our    banner   of    Freedom    and 

Right? 

Ho!  —  alms  for  the  hunters!  or  never  again 
Will  they  ride  in  their  pomp  to  the  hunting  of  men! 

ALMS  —  ALMS  for  our  hunters!  why  will  ye  delay, 
When  their  pride  and  their  glory  are  melting  away? 
The  parson  has  turned  ;  for,  on  charge  of  his  own, 
Who  goeth  a  warfare,  or  hunting,  alone? 
The  politic  statesman  looks  back  with  a  sigh  — 
There   is  doubt  in  his  heart—  there  is  fear  in   his 

eye. 

Oh  !  haste,  lest  that  doubting  and  fear  shall  prevail, 
And  the  head  of  his  steed  take  the  place  of  the  tail. 
Oh!  haste,  ere  he  leave  us!  for  who  will  ride  then, 
For  pleasure  or  gain,  to  the  hunting  of  men? 

1835. 


CLERICAL  OPPRESSORS. 

[In  the  Report  of  the  celebrated  pro-slavery  meeting  in 
Charleston,  S.  C.,  on  the  4th  of  the  gth  month,  1835,  published 
in  the  "  Courier"  of  that  city,  it  is  stated,  "  The  CLERGY  of 
all  denominations  attended  in  a  body,  LENDING  THEI R  SANCTION 
TO  THE  PROCEEDINGS,  and  adding  by  their  presence  to  the 
impressive  character  of  the  scene !  "] 


108  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

JUST  God!  —  and  these  are  they 
Who  minister  at  Thine  altar,  God  of  Right! 
Men  who  their  hands  with  prayer  and  blessing  lay 

On  Israel's  Ark  of  light! 

What!  preach  and  kidnap  men? 
Give  thanks  —  and  rob  Thy  own  afflicted  poor  ? 
Talk  of  Thy  glorious  liberty,  and  then 

Bolt  hard  the  captive's  door? 

What !  servants  of  Thy  own 
Merciful  Son,  who  came  to  seek  and  save 
The  homeless  and  the  outcast,  —  fettering  down 

The  tasked  and  plundered  slave ! 

Pilate  and  Herod,  friends ! 
Chief  priests  and  rulers,  as  of  old,  combine! 
Just  God  and  holy!  is  that  church,  which  lends 

Strength  to  the  spoiler,  Thine? 

Paid  hypocrites,  who  turn 
Judgment  aside,  and  rob  the  Holy  Book 
Of  those  high  words  of  truth  which  search  and  burn 

In  warning  and  rebuke  ; 

Feed  fat,  ye  locusts,  feed! 
And,  in  your  tasselled  pulpits,  thank  the  Lord 
That,  from  the  toiling  bondsman's  utter  need, 

Ye  pile  your  own  full  board. 


CLERICAL    OPPRESSORS.  109 

How  long,  O  Lord!  how  long 
Shall  such  a  priesthood  barter  truth  away, 
And.  in  Thy  name,  for  robbery  and  wrong 

At  Thy  own  altars  pray? 

Is  not  Thy  hand  stretched  forth 
Visibly  in  the  heavens,  to  awe  and  smite? 
Shall  not  the  living  God  of  all  the  earth, 

And  heaven  above,  do  right  ? 

Woe,  then,  to  all  who  grind 
Their  brethren  of  a  common  Father  down! 
To  all  who  plunder  from  the  immortal  mind 

Its  bright  and  glorious  crown! 

Woe  to  the  priesthood!  woe 
To  those  whose  hire  is  with  the  price  of  blood  — 
Perverting,  darkening,  changing  as  they  go, 

The  searching  truths  of  God! 

Their  glory  and  their  might 
Shall  perish  ;  and  their  very  names  shall  be 
Vile  before  all  the  people,  in  the  light 

Of  a  world's  liberty. 

Oh!  speed  the  moment  on 

When  Wrong  shall  cease  —  and  Liberty,  and  Love, 
And    Truth,  and    Right,   throughout   the  earth   be 
known 

As  in  their  home  above. 
1836. 


IIO  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 


THE   CHRISTIAN    SLAVE. 

[In  a  late  publication  of  L.  F.  TASISTRO,  "  Random  Shots 
and  Southern  Breezes,"  is  a  description  of  a  slave  auction  at 
New  Orleans,  at  which  the  auctioneer  recommended  the 
woman  on  the  stand  as  "  A  GOOD  CHRISTIAN  !  "] 

A  CHRISTIAN!  going,  gone! 
Who  bids  for  God's  own  image?  —  for  His  grace 
Which  that  poor  victim  of  the  market-place 

Hath  in  her  suffering  won? 


My  God!  can  such  things  be? 
Hast  thou  not  said  that  whatsoe'er  is  done 
Unto  Thy  weakest  and  Thy  humblest  one, 

Is  even  done  to  Thee? 


In  that  sad  victim,  then, 

Child  of  Thy  pitying  love,  I  see  Thee  stand  — 
Once  more  the  jest-word  of  a  mocking  band, 

Bound,  sold,  and  scourged  again! 


A  Christian  up  for  sale! 
Wet    with    her    blood    your   whips  —  o'ertask    her 

frame, 
Make    her    life    loathsome    with    your    wrong    and 

shame, 
Her  patience  shall  not  fail! 


THE   CHRISTIAN  SLAVE.  Ill 

A  heathen  hand  might  deal 

Back  on  your  heads  the  gathered  wrong  of  years, 
But  her  low,  broken  prayer  and  nightly  tears 

Ye  neither  heed  nor  feel. 

Con  well  thy  lesson  o'er, 

Thou  prudent  teacher  —  tell  the  toiling  slave 
No  dangerous  tale  of  Him  who  came  to  save 

The  outcast  and  the  poor. 

But  wisely  shut  the  ray 
Of  God's  free  Gospel  from  her  simple  heart, 
And  to  her  darkened  mind  alone  impart 

One  stern  command  —  "  OBEY!  "  1 

So  shalt  thou  deftly  raise 
The  market  price  of  human  flesh  :  and  while 
On  thee,  their  pampered  guest,  the  planters  smile, 

Thy  church  shall  praise. 

Grave,  reverend  men  shall  tell 
From  Northern  pulpits  how  thy  work  was  blest, 
While  in  that  vile  South  Sodom,  first  and  best, 

Thy  poor  disciples  sell. 

1  There  is  in  Liberty  County,  Georgia,  an  Association  for 
the  religious  instruction  of  Negroes.  Their  seventh  annual 
report  contains  an  address  by  the  Rev.  Josiah  Spry  Law,  from 
which  we  extract  the  following  :  —  "  There  is  a  growing  interest, 
in  this  community,  in  the  religious  instruction  of  Negroes. 
There  is  a  conviction  that  religious  instruction  promotes  the 
quiet  and  order  of  the  people,  and  the  pecuniary  interest  of  the 
owners." 


112  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

Oh,  shame!  the  Moslem  thrall, 
Who,  with  his  master,  to  the  Prophet  kneels, 
While  turning  to  the  sacred  Kebla  feels 

His  fetters  break  and  fall. 


Cheers  for  the  turbaned  Bey 
Of  robber-peopled  Tunis !  he  hath  torn 
The  dark  slave-dungeons  open,  and  hath  borne 

Their  inmates  into  day  : 

But  our  poor  slave  in  vain 

Turns  to  the  Christian  shrine  his  aching  eyes  — 
Its  rites  will  only  swell  his  market  price, 

And  rivet  on  his  chain.1 


God  of  all  right !  how  long 
Shall  priestly  robbers  at  Thine  altar  stand, 
Lifting  in  prayer  to  Thee,  the  bloody  hand 

And  haughty  brow  of  wrong  ? 

Oh,  from  the  fields  of  cane, 

From  the  low  rice-swamp,  from  the  trader's  cell  — 
From    the    black    slave-ship's    foul    and   loathsome 
hell, 

And  coffle's  weary  chain,  — 

1  We  often  see  advertisements  in  the  Southern  papers,  in 
which  individual  slaves,  or  several  of  a  lot,  are  recommended 
as  "pious"  or  as  "members  of  churches."  Lately  we  saw  a 
slave  advertised,  who,  amon^  other  qualifications,  was  de 
scribed  as  "  a  Baptist  preacher" 


ST.1XZAS  FOR    THE    TIMES.  113 

Hoarse,  horrible,  and  strong, 
Rises  to  Heaven  that  agonizing  cry, 
Filling  the  arches  of  the  hollow  sky, 

How  LONG,  OH  GOD,  HOW  LONG  ? 

1843- 


STANZAS   FOR   THE   TIMES.1 

Is  this  the  land  our  fathers  loved, 

The  freedom  which  they  toiled  to  win? 

Is  this  the  soil  whereon  they  moved? 
Are  these  the  graves  they  slumber  in? 

Are  we  the  sons  by  whom  are  borne 

The  mantles  which  the  dead  have  worn  ? 

And  shall  we  crouch  above  these  graves, 

With  craven  soul  and  fettered  lip  ? 
Yoke  in  with  marked  and  branded  slaves, 

And  tremble  at  the  driver's  whip? 
Bend  to  the  earth  our  pliant  knees, 
And  speak  —  but  as  our  masters  please  ? 

1  The  "  Times  "  alluded  to  were  those  evil  times  of  the  pro- 
slavery  meeting  in  Faneuil  Hall,  for  the  suppression  of  free 
dom  of  speech,  lest  it  should  endanger  the  foundations  of 
commercial  society.  In  view  of  the  outrages  which  a  care 
ful  observation  of  the  times  had  enabled  him  to  foresee  must 
spring  from  the  false  witness  borne  against  the  abolitionists  by 
the  speakers  at  that  meeting  well  might  Garrison  say  of  them, 
"  I  consider  the  man  who  fires  a  city  guiltless  in  comparison." 


114  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

Shall  outraged  Nature  cease  to  feel  ? 

Shall  Mercy's  tears  no  longer  flow  ? 
Shall  ruffian  threats  of  cord  and  steel  — 

The  dungeon's  gloom  —  the  assassin's  blow, 
Turn  back  the  spirit  roused  to  save 
The  Truth,  our  Country,  and  the  Slave? 

Of  human  skulls  that  shrine  was  made, 
Round  which  the  priests  of  Mexico 

Before  their  loathsome  idol  prayed  — 
Is  Freedom's  altar  fashioned  so? 

And  must  wre  yield  to  Freedom's  God, 

As  offering  meet,  the  negro's  blood? 

Shall  tongues  be  mute,  when  deeds  are  wrought 
Which  well  might  shame  extremest  hell  ? 

Shall  freemen  lock  the  indignant  thought? 
Shall  Pity's  bosom  cease  to  swell? 

Shall  Honor  bleed?  —  Shall  Truth  succumb? 

Shall  pen,  and  press,  and  soul  be  dumb  ? 

No  —  by  each  spot  of  haunted  ground, 

Where  Freedom  weeps  her  children's  fall  -, 

By  Plymouth's  rock,  and  Bunker's  mound  — 
By  Griswold's  stained  and  shattered  wall  — 

By  Warren's  ghost  —  by  Langdon's  shade  — 

By  all  the  memories  of  our  dead ! 

By  their  enlarging  souls,  which  burst 
The  bands  and  fetters  round  them  set  — 

By  the  free  Pilgrim  spirit  nursed 
Within  our  inmost  bosoms,  yet,  — 

By  all  above  —  around  —  below  — 

Be  ours  the  indignant  answer  —  NO! 


STANZAS  FOR    THE    TIMES.  I  1 5 

No  —  guided  by  our  country's  laws, 

For  truth,  and  right,  and  suffering  man. 

Be  ours  to  strive  in  Freedom's  cause, 
As  Christians  may  —  as  freemen  can  ! 

Still  pouring  on  unwilling  ears 

That  truth  oppression  only  fears. 

What !  shall  we  guard  our  neighbor  still, 
While  woman  shrieks  beneath  his  rod, 

And  while  he  tramples  down  at  will 
The  image  of  a  common  God! 

Shall  watch  and  ward  be  round  him  set, 

Of  Northern  nerve  and  bayonet  ? 

And  shall  we  know  and  share  with  him 
The  danger  and  the  growing  shame? 

And  see  our  Freedom's  light  grow  dim. 

Which  should  have  filled  the  world  with  flame? 

And,  writhing,  feel,  where'er  we  turn, 

A  world's  reproach  around  us  burn  ? 

Is  't  not  enough  that  this  is  borne? 

And  asks  our  hearty  neighbor  more  ? 
Must  fetters  which  his  slaves  have  worn, 

Clank  round  the  Yankee  farmer's  door? 
Must  he  be  told  beside  his  plough, 
What  he  must  speak,  and  when,  and  how? 

Must  he  be  told  his  freedom  stands 

On  Slavery's  dark  foundations  strong  — 

On  breaking  hearts  and  fettered  hands, 
On  robbery,  and  crime,  and  wrong? 

That  all  his  fathers  taught  is  vain  — 

That  Freedom's  emblem  is  the  chain? 


Il6  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

Its  life  —  its  soul,  from  slavery  drawn? 

False  —  foul  —  profane !     Go  —  teach  as  well 
Of  holy  Truth  from  Falsehood  born! 

Of  Heaven  refreshed  by  airs  from  Hell! 
Of  Virtue  in  the  arms  of  Vice! 
Of  Demons  planting  Paradise! 

Rail  on,  then,  "  brethren  of  the  South  "  — 
Ye  shall  not  hear  the  truth  the  less  — - 

No  seal  is  on  the  Yankee's  mouth, 
No  fetter  on  the  Yankee  press! 

From  our  Green  Mountains  to  the  Sea, 

One  voice  shall  thunder  —  WE  ARE  FREE! 

1835- 


LINES. 

Written  on  reading  the  spirited  and  manly  remarks  of  Governor 
RITNER,  of  Pennsylvania,  in  his  Message  of  1836,  on  the 
subject  of  Slavery. 

THANK  God  for  the  token!  —  one  lip  is  still  free  — 
One  spirit  untrammelled  —  unbending  one  knee! 
Like  the  oak  of  the  mountain,  deep-rooted  and  firm, 
Erect,  when  the  multitude  bends  to  the  storm ; 
When  traitors  to  Freedom,  and  Honor,  and  God, 
Are  bowed  at  an  Idol  polluted  with  blood  ; 
When  the  recreant  North  has  forgotten  her  trust, 
And  the  lip  of  her  honor  is  low  in  the  dust,  — 
Thank   God,    that    one   arm  from    the   shackle    has 
broken! 


RITNER.          x  II/ 

Thank  God,  that  one  man,  as  a  freeman,  has  spoken! 
O'er  thy  crags,  Alleghany.  a  blast  has  been  blown! 
Down  thy  tide,  Susquehanna,  the  murmur  has  gone.' 
To   the   land   of  the   South  — of    the   charter  and 

chain  — 

Of  Liberty  sweetened  with  Slavery's  pain  ; 
Where  the  cant  of  Democracy  dwells  on  the  lips 
Of  the  forgers  of  fetters,  and  wielders  of  whips! 
Where  "  chivalric"  honor  means  really  no  more 
Than  scourging  of  women,  and  robbing  the  poor! 
Where  the  Moloch  of  Slavery  sitteth  on  high, 
And  the  words  which  he  utters  are  —  WORSHIP,  OR 

DIE! 

Right  onward,  oh,  speed  it!     Wherever  the  blood 
Of  the  wronged  and  the  guiltless  is  crying  to  God  ; 
Wherever  a  slave  in  his  fetters  is  pining ; 
Wherever  the  lash  of  the  driver  is  twining ; 
Wherever  from  kindred,  torn  rudely  apart, 
Comes  the  sorrowful  wail  of  the  broken  of  heart ; 
Wherever  the  shackles  of  tyranny  bind, 
In  silence  and  darkness,  the  God-given  mind ; 
There,   God    speed    it   onward!  —  its   truth   will   be 

felt— 
The  bonds  shall  be  loosened  —  the  iron  shall  melt ! 


And  oh,  will  the  land  where  the  free  soul  of  PENN 
Still  lingers  and  breathes  over  mountain  and  glen  — 
Will  the  land  where  a  BENEZET'S  spirit  went  forth 
To    the    peeled,    and    the    meted,    and    outcast    of 
Earth  — 


Il8  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

Where  the  words  of  the  Charter  of  Liberty  first 
From  the  soul  of  the  sage  and  the  patriot  burst  — 
Where  first  for  the  wronged  and  the  weak  of  theii 

kind, 

The    Christian    and    statesman    their    efforts    com 
bined — 
Will    that   land  of  the  free   and  the   good  wear   a 

chain  ? 
Will  the  call  to  the  rescue  of  Freedom  be  vain  ? 

No,  RITNER!  —  her  "Friends, "at  thy  warning  shall 

stand 

Erect  for  the  truth, 'like  their  ancestral  band  ; 
Forgetting  the  feuds  and  the  strife  of  past  time, 
Counting  coldness  injustice,  and  silence  a  crime  ; 
Turning  back  from  the  cavil  of  creeds,  to  unite 
Once  again  for  the  poor  in  defence  of  the  Right ; 
Breasting  calmly,  but  firmly,  the  full  tide  of  Wrong, 
Overwhelmed,  but  not  borne  on  its  surges  along ; 
Unappalled  by  the  danger,  the  shame,  and  the  pain, 
And  counting  each  trial  for  Truth  as  their  gain! 

And  that  bold-hearted  yeomanry,  honest  and  true, 
Who,  haters  of  fraud,  give  to  labor  its  due ; 
Whose  fathers,  of  old,  sang  in  concert  with  thine, 
On  the  banks  of  Swetara,  the  songs  of  the  Rhine  — 
The  German-born  pilgrims,  who  first  dared  to  brave 
The  scorn  of  the  proud  in  the  cause  of  the  slave  : l  - 

1  It  is  a  remarkable  fact  that  the  first  testimony  of  a  religious 
body  against  negro  slavery  was  that  of  a  Society  of  German 
"  Friends  "  in  Pennsylvania. 


PASTORAL   LETTER.  119 

Will  the  sons  of  such  men   yield  the  lords  of  the 

South 
One    brow    for    the    brand — for    the    padlock    one 

mouth? 

They  cater  to  tyrants  ?  —  they  rivet  the  chain. 
Which  their  fathers  smote  off,  on  the  negro  again? 

No,  never!  one  voice,  like  the  sound  in  the  cloud, 
When  the  roar  of  the  storm  waxes  loud  and  more  loud, 
Wherever  the  foot  of  the  freeman  hath  pressed 
From  the  Delaware's  marge  to  the  Lake  of  the  West, 
On  the  South-going  breezes  shall  deepen  and  grow 
Till  the  land  it  sweeps  over  shall  tremble  below! 
The  voice  of  a  PEOPLE  —  uprisen  —  awake  — 
Pennsylvania's  watchword,  with  Freedom  at  stake, 
Thrilling  up  from  each  valley,  flung  down  from  each 

height, 
"OuR    COUNTRY   AND   LIBERTY!  —  GOD   FOR   THE 

RIGHT!'1 

1837.  .o, 

LINES. 

Written  on  reading  the  famous  "  PASTORAL  LETTER  "  of  the 
Massachusetts  General  Association,  1837. 

So,  this  is  all  —  the  utmost  reach 

Of  priestly  power  the  mind  to  fetter! 
When  laymen  think --when  women  preach  — 

A  war  of  words  —  a  "  Pastoral  Letter!  " 
Now,  shame  upon  ye,  parish  Popes! 

Was  it  thus  with  those,  your  predecessors, 
Who  sealed  with  racks,  and  fire,  and  ropes 

Their  loving  kindness  to  transgressors? 


120  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

A  "  Pastoral  Letter,"  grave  and  dull  — 

Alas !  in  hoof  and  horns  and  features, 
How  different  is  your  Brookfield  bull, 

From  him  who  bellows  from  St.  Peter's! 
Your  pastoral  rights  and  powers  from  harm, 

Think  ye,  can  words  alone  preserve  them? 
Your  wiser  fathers  taught  the  arm 

And  sword  of  temporal  power  to  serve  them. 

Oh,  glorious  days  —  when  church  and  state 

Were  wedded  by  your  spiritual  fathers! 
And  on  submissive  shoulders  sat 

Your  Wilsons  and  your  Cotton  Mathers. 
No  vile  "  itinerant "  then  can  mar 

The  beauty  of  your  tranquil  Zion, 
But  at  his  peril  of  the  scar 

Of  hangman's  whip  and  branding-iron. 

Then,  wholesome  laws  relieved  the  church 

Of  heretic  and  mischief-maker, 
And  priest  and  bailiff  joined  in  search, 

By  turns,  of  Papist,  witch,  and  Quaker! 
The  stocks  were  at  each  church's  door, 

The  gallows  stood  on  Boston  Common, 
A  Papist's  ears  the  pillory  bore,  — 

The  gallows-rope,  a  Quaker  woman! 

Your  fathers  dealt  not  as  ye  deal 
With  "  non-professing  "  frantic  teachers  ; 

They  bored  the  tongue  with  red-hot  steel, 
And  flayed  the  backs  of  "female  preachers." 


. 


PASTORAL  LETTER.  121 


Old  Newbury,  had  her  fields  a  tongue, 
And  SalenVs  streets,  could  tell  their  story, 

Of  fainting  woman  dragged  along, 

Gashed  by  the  whip,  accursed  and  gory! 

And  will  ye  ask  me,  why  this  taunt 

Of  memories  sacred  from  the  scorner? 
And  why  with  reckless  hand  I  plant 

A  nettle  on  the  graves  ye  honor? 
Not  to  reproach  New  England's  dead 

This  record  from  the  past  I  summon, 
Of  manhood  to  the  scaffold  led, 

And  suffering  and  heroic  woman. 

No  —  for  yourselves  alone,  I  turn 

The  pages  of  intolerance  over, 
That,  in  their  spirit,  dark  and  stern, 

Ye  haply  may  your  own  discover! 
For,  if  ye  claim  the  "pastoral  right" 

To  silence  Freedom's  voice  of  warning, 
And  from  your  precincts  shut  the  light 

Of  Freedom's  day  around  ye  dawning ; 

If  when  an  earthquake  voice  of  power, 

And  signs  in  earth  and  heaven  are  showing 
That,  forth,  in  its  appointed  hour, 

The  Spirit  of  the  Lord  is  going! 
And,  with  that  Spirit,  Freedom's  light 

On  kindred,  tongue,  and  people  breaking, 
Whose  slumbering  millions,  at  the  sight, 

In  glory  and  in  strength  are  waking! 


122  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

When  for  the  sighing  of  the  poor, 

And  for  the  needy,  God  hath  risen, 
And  chains  are  breaking,  and  a  door 

Is  opening  for  the  souls  in  prison! 
If  then  ye  would,  with  puny  hands, 

Arrest  the  very  work  of  Heaven, 
And  bind  anew  the  evil  bands 

Which  God's  right  arm  of  power  hath  riven 

What  marvel  that,  in  many  a  mind. 

Those  darke^  deeds  of  bigot  madness 
Are  closely  with  your  own  combined, 

Yet  "  less  in  anger  than  in  sadness  "  ? 
What  marvel,  if  the  people  learn 

To  claim  the  right  of  free  opinion  ? 
What  marvel,  if  at  times  they  spurn 

The  ancient  yoke  of  your  dominion  ? 

Oh,  how  contrast,  with  such  as  ye, 

A  LEAVITT'S  free  and  generous  bearing! 
A  PERRY'S  calm  integrity, 

A  PHELP'S  zeal  and  Christian  daring! 
A  FOLLEN'S  soul  of  sacrifice, 

And  MAY'S  with  kindness  overflowing! 
How  green  and  lovely  in  the  eyes 

Of  freemen  are  their  graces  growing! 

Ay,  there's  a  glorious  remnant  yet, 

Whose  lips  are  wet  at  Freedom's  fountains, 

The  coming  of  whose  welcome  feet 
Is  beautiful  upon  our  mountains  I 


PASTOKM    LETTER.  123 

Men   who  the  gospel  tidings  bring 

Of  Liberty  and  Love  forever, 
Whose  joy  is  one  abiding  spring, 

Whose  peace  is  as  a  gentle  river! 

But  ye,  who  scorn  the  thrilling  tale 

Of  Carolina's  high-souled  daughters, 
Which  echoes  here  the  mournful  wail 

Of  sorrow  from  Edisto's  waters. 
Close  while  ye  may  the  public  ear  — 

With  malice  vex,  with  slander  wound  them  — 
The  pure  and  good  shall  throng  to  hear, 

And  tried  and  manly  hearts  surround  them. 

Oh,  ever  may  the  power  which  led 

Their  way  to  such  a  fiery  trial, 
And  strengthened  womanhood  to  tread 

The  wine-press  of  such  self-denial, 
Be  round  them  in  an  evil  land, 

With  wisdom  and  with  strength  from  Heaven, 
With  Miriam's  voice,  and  Judith's  hand, 

And  Deborah's  song  for  triumph  given ! 

And  what  are  ye  who  strive  with  God, 

Against  the  ark  of  his  salvation, 
Moved  by  the  breath  of  prayer  abroad, 

With  blessings  for  a  dying  nation? 
What,  but  the  stubble  and  the  hay 

To  perish,  even  as  flax  consuming, 
With  all  that  bars  His  glorious  way, 

Before  the  brightness  of  His  coming? 


124  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

And  them  sad  Angel,  who  so  long 

Hast  waited  for  the  glorious  token, 
That  Earth  from  all  her  bonds  of  wrong 

To  liberty  and  light  has  broken  — 
Angel  of  Freedom !  soon  to  thee 

The  sounding  trumpet  shall  be  given, 
And  over  Earth's  full  jubilee 

Shall  deeper  joy  be  felt  in  Heaven! 

1837- 


LINES. 

Written  for  the  meeting  of  the  Anti-Slavery  Society,  at  Chat 
ham  Street  Chapel,  N.Y.,  held  on  the  4th  of  the  yth  month, 
1834. 

O  THOU,  whose  presence  went  before 

Our  fathers  in  their  weary  way, 
As  with  Thy  chosen  moved  of  yore 

The  fire  by  night  — the  cloud  by  day! 

When  from  each  temple  of  the  free, 
A  nation's  song  ascends  to  Heaven, 

Most  Holy  Father!  unto  Thee  ' 

May  not  our  humble  prayer  be  given  ? 

Thy  children  all  — though  hue  and  form 
Are  varied  in  Thine  own  good  will  — 

With  Thy  own  holy  breathings  warm, 
And  fashioned  in  Thine  image  still. 


LINES.  125 

We  thank  Thee,  Father!  — hill  and  plain 
Around  us  \\avc  their  fruits  once  more, 

And  clustered  vine,  and  blossomed  grain, 
Are  bending  round  each  cottage  door. 

And  peace  is  here ;  and  hope  and  love 

Are  round  us  as  a  mantle  thrown, 
And  unto  Thee,  supreme  above, 

The  knee  of  prayer  is  bowed  alone. 

But  oh,  for  those  this  day  can  bring, 

As  unto  us,  no  joyful  thrill  — 
For  those  who,  under  Freedom's  wing, 

Are  bound  in  Slavery's  fetters  still : 

For  those  to  whom  Thy  living  word 
Of  light  and  love  is  never  given  — 

For  those  whose  ears  have  never  heard 
The  promise  and  the  hope  of  Heaven! 

For  broken  heart,  and  clouded  mind, 
Whereon  no  human  mercies  fall  — 

Oh,  be  Thy  gracious  love  inclined, 
Who,  as  a  father,  pitiest  all! 

And  grant,  O  Father!  that  the  time 
Of  Earth's  deliverance  may  be  near, 

When  every  land,  and  tongue,  and  clime, 
The  message  of  Thy  love  shall  hear- 


126  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

When,  smitten  as  with  fire  from  heaven, 
The  captive's  chain  shall  sink  in  dust, 

And  to  his  fettered  soul  be  given 
The  glorious  freedom  of  the  just! 

1834. 


LINES. 


Written  for  the  celebration  of  the  Third  Anniversary  of  British 
Emancipation,  at  the  Broadway  Tabernacle,  N.\.,  "  First  of 
August,"  1837. 

O  HOLY  FATHER! — just  and  true 

Are  all  Thy  works  and  words  and  ways, 
And  unto  Thee  alone  are  due 

Thanksgiving  and  eternal  praise! 
As  children  of  Thy  gracious  care, 

We  veil  the  eye  —  we  bend  the  knee, 
With  broken  words  of  praise  and  prayer, 

Father  and  God,  we  come  to  Thee. 

For  Thou  hast  heard,  O  God  of  Right, 

The  sighing  of  the  island  slave  ; 
And  stretched  for  him  the  arm  of  might, 

Not  shortened  that  it  could  not  save. 
The  laborer  sits  beneath  his  vine, 

The  shackled  soul  and  hand  are  free  — 
Thanksgiving!  —  for  the  work  is  Thine! 

Praise!  —  for  the  blessing  is  of  Thee! 


//.YES.  127 

And  oh,  we  feel  Thy  presence  here  — 

Thy  awful  arm  in  judgment  bare! 
Thine  eye  hath  seen  the  bondman's  tear  — 

Thine  ear  hath  heard  the  bondman's  prayer! 
Praise!  — for  the  pride  of  man  is  low, 

The  counsels  of  the  wise  are  naught, 
The  fountains  of  repentance  flow  ; 

What  hath  our  God  in  mercy  wrought? 


Speed  on  Thy  work.  Lord  God  of  Hosts! 

And  when  the  bondman's  chain  is  riven, 
And  swells  from  all  our  guilty  coasts 

The  anthem  of  the  free  to  Heaven, 
Oh,  not  to  those  whom  Thou  hast  led, 

As  with  Thy  cloud  and  fire  before, 
But  unto  Thee,  in  fear  and  dread, 

Be  praise  and  glory  ever  more. 
1837. 


LINES. 

Written  for  the  Anniversary  celebration  of  the  First  of  August, 
at  Milton,  1846. 

A  FEW  brief  years  have  passed  away 

Since  Britain  drove  her  million  slaves 
Beneath  the  tropic's  fiery  ray  : 
God  willed  their  freedom  ;  and  to-day 
Life  blooms  above  those  island  graves! 


128  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

He  spoke!  across  the  Carib  sea, 

We  heard  the  clash  of  breaking  chains, 

And  felt  the  heart-throb  of  the  free, 

The  first,  strong  pulse  of  liberty 

Which  thrilled  along  the  bondman's  veins. 

Though  long  delayed,  and  far,  and  slow, 

The  Briton's  triumph  shall  be  ours  ; 
Wears  slavery  here  a  prouder  brow 
Than  that  which  twelve  short  years  ago 
Scowled  darkly  from  her  island  bowers  ? 

Mighty  alike  for  good  or  ill 

With  mother-land  we  fully  share 

The  Saxon  strength  —  the  nerve  of  steel  — 

The  tireless  energy  of  will,  — 

The  power  to  do,  the  pride  to  dare. 

What  she  has  done  can  we  not  do  ? 

Our  hour  and  men  are  both  at  hand  ; 
The  blast  which  Freedom's  angel  blew 
O'er  her  green  island,  echoes  through 

Each  valley  of  our  forest  land. 


Hear  it,  old  Europe!  we  have  sworn 

The  death  of  slavery.  —When  it  falls 
Look  to  your  vassals  in  their  turn, 
Your  poor  dumb  millions,  crushed  and  worn, 
Your  prisons  and  your  palace  walls! 


LINES,  i    9 

Oh  kingly  mockers!  —  scoffing  show 
What  deeds  in  Freedom's  name  we  do ; 

Yet  know  that  every  taunt  ye  throw 

Across  the  waters,  goads  our  slow 

Progression  towards  the  right  and  true. 

Not  always  shall  your  outraged  poor, 

Appalled  by  democratic  crime, 
Grind  as  their  fathers  ground  before,  - 
The  hour  which  sees  our  prison  door 

Swing  wide  shall  be  their  triumph  time. 

Oh  then,  my  brothers!  every  blow 

Ye  deal  is  felt  the  wide  earth  through ; 

Whatever  here  uplifts  the  low 

Or  humbles  Freedom's  hateful  foe, 

Blesses  the  Old  World  through  the  New. 

Take  heart!     The  promised  hour  draws  near- 
I  hear  the  downward  beat  of  wings, 

And  Freedom's  trumpet  sounding  clear  — 

Joy  to  the  people!  —  woe  and  fear 

To  new  world  tyrants,  old  world  kings ! 

1846. 


130  VOICES    OF  FREEDOM. 


THE    FAREWELL. 

OF  A  VIRGINIA  SLAVE  MOTHER  TO  HER  DAUGHTERS,  SOLD 
INTO  SOUTHERN  BONDAGE. 

GONE,  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 

Where  the  slave-whip  ceaseless  swings, 

Where  the  noisome  insect  stings, 

Where  the  fever  demon  strews 

Poison  with  the  falling  dews, 

Where  the  sickly  sunbeams  glare 

Through  the  hot  and  misty  air,  — 
Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters! 

Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
There  no  mother's  eye  is  near  them, 
There  no  mother's  ear  can  hear  them ; 
Never,  when  the  torturing  lash 
Seams  their  back  with  many  a  gash, 
Shall  a  mother's  kindness  bless  them, 
Or  a  mother's  arms  caress  them. 
Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 


FAREWELL    OF  SLAVE  MOTHER. 

Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
Oh.  when  weary,  sad,  and  slow, 
From  the  fields  at  night  they  go, 
Faint  with  toil,  and  racked  with  pain, 
To  their  cheerless  homes  again  — 
There  no  brother's  voice  shall  greet  them 
There  no  father's  welcome  meet  them. 
Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters! 

Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  the  tree  whose  shadow  lay 
On  their  childhood's  place  of  play  — 
From  the  cool  spring  where  they  drank 
Rock,  and  hill,  and  rivulet  bank  — 
From  the  solemn  house  of  prayer, 
And  the  holy  counsels  there  — 
Gone?  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 

Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone  — 

Toiling  through  the  weary  day, 

And  at  night  the  spoiler's  prey. 

Oh,  that  they  had  earlier  died, 

Sleeping  calmly,  side  by  side, 


132  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

Where  the  tyrant's  power  is  o'er 
And  the  fetter  galls  no  more! 

Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — - 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters! 

Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
By  the  holy  love  He  beareth  — 
By  the  bruised  reed  He  spareth  — 
Oh,  may  He,  to  whom  alone 
All  their  cruel  wrongs  are  known, 
Still  their  hope  and  refuge  prove, 
With  a  ino.-J  than  mother's  love. 
Gone,  gone  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 
1838. 


ADDRESS. 

Written  for  the  opening  of "  PENNSYLVANIA  HALL,"  dedicated 
to  Free  Discussion,  Virtue,  Liberty,  and  Independence,  on 
the  i5th  of  the  5th  month,  1838. 

NOT  with  the  splendors  of  the  days  of  old, 

The  spoil  of  nations,  and  "  barbaric  gold  "  - 

No  weapons  wrested  from  the  fields  of  blood, 

Where  dark  and  stern  the  unyielding  Roman  stood, 

And  the  proud  eagles  of  his  cohorts  saw 

A  world,  war-wasted,  crouching  to  his  law  — 


ADDRESS.  133 

Nor  blazoned  car—  nor  banners  floating  gay, 
Like  those  which  swept  along  the  Appian  way, 
When,  to  the  welcome  of  imperial  Rome, 
The  victor  warrior  came  in  triumph  home, 
And  trumpet-peal,  and  shoutings  wild  and  high, 
Stirred  the  blue  quiet  of  the  Italian  sky; 
But  calm  and  grateful,  prayerful  and  sincere, 
As  Christian  freemen,  only,  gathering  here, 
We  dedicate  our  fair  and  lofty  Hall, 
Pillar  and  arch,  entablature  and  wall, 
As  Virtue's  shrine  —  as  Liberty's  abode  — 
Sacred  to  Freedom,  and  to  Freedom's  God! 


Oh!  loftier  halls,  'neath  brighter  skies  than  these, 
Stood  darkly  mirrored  in  the  /Egean  seas, 
Pillar  and  shrine  —  and  life-like  statues  seen, 
Graceful  and  pure,  the  marble  shafts  between, 
Where  glorious  Athens  from  her  rocky  hill 
Saw  Art  and  Beauty  subject  to  her  will  — 
And  the  chaste  temple,  and  the  classic  grove  — 
The  hall  of  sages  —  and  the  bowers  of  love, 
Arch,  fane,  and  column,  graced  the  shores,  and  gave 
Their  shadows  to  the  blue  Saronic  wave ; 
And  statelier  rose,  on  Tiber's  winding  side, 
The  Pantheon's  dome  —  the  Coliseum's  pride  — 
The  Capitol,  whose  arches  backward  flung 
The  deep,  clear  cadence  of  the  Roman  tongue, 
Whence  stern  decrees,  like  words  of  fate,  w^ent  forth 
To  the  awed  nations  of  a  conquered  earth, 
Where  the  proud  Caesars  in  their  glory  came, 
And  Brutus  lightened  from  his  lips  of  flame! 


I  34  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

Yet  in  the  porches  of  Athena's  halls, 

And  in  the  shadows  of  her  stately  walls, 

Lurked  the  sad  bondman,  and  his  tears  of  woe 

Wet  the  cold  marble  with  unheeded  flow ; 

And  fetters  clanked  beneath  the  silver  dome 

Of  the  proud  Pantheon  of  imperious  Rome. 

Oh!  not  for  him  —  the  chained  and  stricken  slave  — 

By  Tiber's  shore,  or  blue  yEgina's  wave, 

In  the  thronged  forum,  or  the  sages'  seat, 

The  bold  lip  pleaded,  and  the  warm  heart  beat ; 

No  soul  of  sorrow  melted  at  his  pain, 

No  tear  of  pity  rusted  on  his  chain ! 

But  this  fair  Hall,  to  Truth  and  Freedom  given, 

Pledged  to  the  Right  before  all  Earth  and  Heaven, 

A  free  arena  for  the  strife  of  mind, 

To  caste,  or  sect,  or  color  unconfined, 

Shall  thrill  with  echoes,  such  as  ne'er  of  old 

From  Roman  hall,  or  Grecian  temple  rolled ; 

Thoughts  shall  find  utterance,  such  as  never  yet 

The  Propylaea  or  the  Forum  met. 

Beneath  its  roof  no  gladiator's  strife 

Shall  win  applauses  with  the  waste  of  life ; 

No  lordly  lictor  urge  the  barbarous  game  — 

No  wanton  Lais  glory  in  her  shame. 

But  here  the  tear  of  sympathy  shall  flow, 

As  the  ear  listens  to  the  tale  of  woe ; 

Here,  in  stern  judgment  of  the  oppressor's  wrong  — 

Shall  strong  rebukings  thrill  on  Freedom's  tongue  - 

No  partial  justice  hold  the  unequal  scale  — 

No  pride  of  caste  a  brother's  rights  assail  — 

No  tyrant's  mandates  echo  from  this  wall, 


ADDRESS.  135 

Holy  to  Freedom  and  the  Rights  of  All! 
But  a  fair  field,  where  mind  may  close  with  mind, 
Free  as  the  sunshine  and  the  chainless  wind ; 
Where  the  high  trust  is  fixed  on  Truth  alone, 
And  bonds  and  fetters  from  the  soul  are  thrown  ; 
Where  wealth,  and  rank,  and  worldly  pomp,  and  might 
Yield  to  the  presence  of  the  True  and  Right. 

And  fitting  is  it  that  this  Hall  should  stand 

Where  Pennsylvania's  Founder  led  his  band, 

From  thy  blue  waters,  Delaware !  —  to  press 

The  virgin  verdure  of  the  wilderness. 

Here,  where  all  Europe  with  amazement  saw 

The  soul's  high  freedom  trammelled  by  no  law ; 

Here,  where  the  fierce  and  warlike  forest-men 

Gathered  in  peace,  around  the  home  of  PENN, 

Awed  by  the  weapons  Love  alone  had  given, 

Drawn  from  the  holy  armory  of  Heaven  ; 

Where  Nature's  voice  against  the  bondman's  wrong 

First  found  an  earnest  and  indignant  tongue ; 

Where  LAY'S  bold  message  to  the  proud  was  borne, 

And  KEITH'S  rebuke,  and  FRANKLIN'S  manly  scorn  — 

Fitting  it  is  that  here,  where  Freedom  first 

From  her  fair  feet  shook  off  the  Old  World's  dust, 

Spread  her  white  pinions  to  our  Western  blast, 

And  her  free  tresses  to  our  sunshine  cast, 

One  Hall  should  rise  redeemed  from  Slavery's  ban-- 

One  Temple  sacred  to  the  Rights  of  Man! 

Oh !  if  the  spirits  of  the  parted  come, 
Visiting  angels,  to  their  olden  home ; 
If  the  dead  fathers  of  the  land  look  forth 


136  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM, 

From  their  far  dwellings,  to  the  things  of  earth  — 
Is  it  a  dream  that  with  their  eyes  of  love, 
They  gaze  now  on  us  from  the  bowers  above? 
LAY'S  ardent  soul  —  and  BENEZET  the  mild, 
Steadfast  in  faith,  yet  gentle  as  a  child  — 
Meek-hearted  WOOLMAN,  —  and  that  brother-band, 
The  sorrowing  exiles  from  their  "  FATHERLAND," 
Leaving  their  homes  in  Krieshiem's  bowers  of  vine. 
And  the  blue  beauty  of  their  glorious  Rhine, 
To  seek  amidst  our  solemn  depths  of  wood 
Freedom  from  man  and  holy  peace  with  God ; 
Who  first  of  all  their  testimonial  gave 
Against  the  oppressor,  —  for  the  outcast  slave,  — 
Is  it  a  dream  that  such  as  these  look  down, 
And  with  their  blessing  our  rejoicings  crown? 

Let  us  rejoice,  that,  while  the  pulpit's  door 

Is  barred  against  the  pleaders  for  the  poor ; 

While  the  church,  wrangling  upon  points  of  faith, 

Forgets  her  bondmen  suffering  unto  death  ; 

While  crafty  traffic  and  the  lust  of  gain 

Unite  to  forge  oppression's  triple  chain, 

One  door  is  open,  and  one  Temple  free  — 

As  a  resting  place  for  hunted  Liberty ! 

Where  men  may  speak,  unshackled  and  unawed, 

High  words  of  truth,  for  Freedom  and  for  God. 


And  when  that  truth  its  perfect  work  hath  done, 
And  rich  with  blessings  o'er  our  land  hath  gone ; 
When  not  a  slave  beneath  his  yoke  shall  pine, 
From  broad  Potomac  to  the  far  Sabine ; 


ADDRESS.  137 

When  unto  angel-lips  at  last  is  given 

The  silver  trump  of  Jubilee  to  Heaven  ; 

And  from  Virginia's  plains  —  Kentucky's  shades, 

And  through  the  dim  Floridian  everglades, 

Rises,  to  meet  that  angel-trumpet's  sound, 

The  voice  of  millions  from  their  chains  unbound  — 

Then,  though  this  Hall  be  crumbling  in  decay, 

Its  strong  walls  blending  with  the  common  clay,   . 

Yet,  round  the  ruins  of  its  strength  shall  stand 

The  best  anc|  noblest  of  a  ransomed  land  — 

Pilgrims,  like  those  who  throng  around  the  shrine 

( )f  Mecca,  or  of  holy  Palestine!  — 

A  prouder  glory  shall  that  ruin  own 

Than  that  which  lingers  round  the  Parthenon. 

Here  shall  the  child  of  after  years  be  taught 
The  work  of  Freedom  which  his  fathers  wrought  — 
Told  of  the  trials  of  the  present  hour, 
Our  weary  strife  with  prejudice  and  power, — 
I  low  the  high  errand  quickened  woman's  soul, 
And  touched  her  lip  as  with  a  living  coal  — 
How  Freedom's  martyrs  kept  their  lofty  faith, 
True  and  unwavering,  unto  bonds  and  death. — 
The  pencil's  art  shall  sketch  the  ruined  Hall, 
The  Muses'  garland  crown  its  aged  vail, 
And  History's  pen  for  after  times  record 
Its  consecration  unto  FREEDOM'S  GOD! 

1838. 


138  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 


THE   MORAL  WARFARE. 

WHEN  Freedom,  on  her  natal  day, 

Within  her  war-rocked  cradle  lay, 

An  iron  race  around  her  stood, 

Baptized  her  infant  brow  in  blood 

And,  through  the  storm  which  round  her  swept, 

Their  constant  ward  and  watching  kept. 

Then,  where  our  quiet  herds  repose, 
The  roar  of  baleful  battle  rose, 
And  brethren  of  a  common  tongue 
To  mortal  strife  as  tigers  sprung, 
And  every  gift  on  Freedom's  shrine 
Was  man  for  beast,  and  blood  for  wine! 

Our  fathers  to  their  graves  have  gone  ; 
Their  strife  is  past  —  their  triumph  won  ; 
But  sterner  trials  wait  the  race 
Which  rises  in  their  honored  place  — 
A  moral  warfare  with  the  crime 
And  folly  of  an  evil  time. 

So  let  it  be.     In  God's  own  might 
We  gird  us  for  the  coming  fight, 
And,  strong  in  Him  whose  cause  is  ours 
In  conflict  with  unholy  powers, 
We  grasp  the  weapons  He  has  given,  — 
The  Light,  and  Truth,  and  Love  of  Heaven! 
1836. 


THE  RESPONSE.  139 


THE   RESPONSE. 

["  To  agitate  the  question  (Slavery)  anew,  is  not  only  im 
politic,  but  it  is  a  virtual  breach  of  good  faith  to  our  brethren 
of  the  South  ;  an  unwarrantable  interference  with  their  domes 
tic  relations  and  institutions."  "  I  can  never,  in  the  official 
station  which  I  occupy,  consent  to  countenance  a  course 
which  may  jeopard  the  peace  and  harmony  of  the  Union."  — 
Governor  Porter  s  Inaugural  Message,  1838.] 

No  "  countenance  "  of  his,  forsooth ! 

Who  asked  it  at  his  vassal  hands  ?  , 
Who  looked  for  homage  done  to  Truth, 

By  party's  vile  and  hateful  bands  ? 
Who  dreamed  that  one  by  them  possessed, 
Would  lay  for  her  his  spear  in  rest  ? 

1 1  is  "  countenance  "  !  well,  let  it  light 

The  human  robber  to  his  spoil!  — 
Let  those  who  track  the  bondman's  flight, 

Like  bloodhounds  o'er  our  once  free  soil, 
Bask  in  its  sunshine  while  they  may, 
And  howl  its  praises  on  their  way ; 

We  ask  no  boon  :  our  rights  we  claim  — 

Free  press  and  thought  —  free  tongue  and  pen  — 

The  right  to  speak  in  Freedom's  name, 
As  Fennsylvanians  and  as  men  ; 

To  do,  by  Lynch  law  unforbid, 

What  our  own  Rush  and  Franklin  did. 


140  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM, 

Ay,  there  we  stand,  with  planted  feet, 

Steadfast,  where  those  old  worthies  stood :  — 

Upon  us  let  the  tempest  beat, 

Around  us  swell  and  surge  the  flood : 

We  fail  or  triumph  on  that  spot ; 

God  helping  us,  we  falter  not. 

"  A  breach  of  plighted  faith  ?  "     For  shame !  — 
Who  voted  for  that  "  breach  "  ?     Who  gave 

In  the  state  councils,  vote  and  name 
For  freedom  for  the  District  slave  ? 

Consistent  patriot!  go,  forswear, 

Blot  out,  "expunge1'  the  record  there!1 

Go,  eat  thy  words.     Shall  H[enry]  C[lay] 

Turn  round  —  a  moral  harlequin? 
And  arch  V[an]  B[uren]  wipe  away 

The  stains  of  his  Missouri  sin  ? 
And  shall  that  one  unlucky  vote 
Stick,  burr-like,  in  thy  honest  throat? 

No —  do  thy  part  in  "putting  down  "  2 
The  friends  of  Freedom  :  —  summon  out 

The  parson  in  his  saintly  gown, 
To  curse  the  outlawed  roundabout, 

In  concert  with  the  Belial  brood  — 

The  Balaam  of  "  the  brotherhood  "  ! 

1  It  ought  to  be  borne  in  mind  that  DAVID  R.  PORTER  voted 
in  the  Legislature  to  instruct  the  congressional  delegation  of 
Pennsylvania  to  use  their  influence  for  the  abolition  of  slavery 
in  the  District  of  Columbia. 

2  He   [Martin  Van  Buren]   thinks  the  abolitionists  may  be 
put  down."  —  Richmond  (  Va.)  Enquirer. 


TIII-:  Ki-'.xroxsE.  141 

Quench  every  free  discussion  light  — 

Clap  on  the  legislative  snuffers. 
And  caulk  with  -resolutions"  tight 

The  ghastly  rents  the  t'nion  suttei>! 
Let  church  and  state  brand  Abolition 
As  heresy  and  rank  sedition. 

Choke  down,  at  once,  each  breathing  thing, 
That  whispers  of  the  Rights  of  Man  :  — 

Gag  the  free  girl  who  d?.res  to  sing 
Of  freedom  o'er  her  dairy  pan  :  — 

Dog  the  old  farmer's  steps  about, 

And  hunt  his  cherished  treason  out. 

Go,  hunt  sedition.  —  Search  for  that 

In  every  pedler's  cart  of  rags  ; 
Pry  into  every  Quaker's  hat, 

And  DOCTOR  FUSSELL'S  saddle  bags! 
Lest  treason  wrap,  with  all  its  ills, 
Around  his  powders  and  his  pills. 

Where  Chester's  oak  and  walnut  shades 

With  slavery-laden  breezes  stir, 
And  on  the  hills,  and  in  the  glades 

Of  Bucks  and  honest  Lancaster, 
Are  heads  which  think  and  hearts  which  feel  — 
Flints  to  the  Abolition  steel! 

Ho!  send  ye  down  a  corporal's  guard 
With  flow  of  flag  and  beat  of  drum  — 

Storm  LIXDLEY  COATES'S  poultry  yard, 
Beleaguer  THOMAS  WHITSON'S  home  ! 

Beat  up  the  Quaker  quarters  —  show 

Your  valor  to  an  unarmed  foe ! 


142  VOICES    OF  FREEDOM. 

Do  more.     Fill  up  your  loathsome  jails 
With  faithful  men  and  women  —  set 

The  scaffold  up  in  these  green  vales, 
And  let  their  verdant  turf  be  wet 

With  blood  of  unresisting  men  — 

Ay,  do  all  this,  and  more,  —  WHAT  THEN  ? 

Think  ye,  one  heart  of  man  and  child 
Will  falter  from  his  lofty  faith, 

At  the  mob's  tumult,  fierce  and  wild  — 
The  prison  cell  —  the  shameful  death  ? 

No !  —  nursed  in  storm  and  trial  long, 

The  weakest  of  our  band  is  strong! 

Oh !  While  before  us  visions  come 
Of  slave  ships  on  Virginia's  coast  — 

Of  mothers  in  their  childless  home, 
Like  Rachel,  sorrowing  o:er  the  lost  — 

The  slave-gang  scourged  upon  its  way  — 

The  bloodhound  and  his  human  prey  — 

We  cannot  falter!     Did  we  so, 

The  stones  beneath  would  murmur  out, 

And  all  the  winds  that  round  us  blow 
Would  whisper  of  our  shame  about. 

No!  let  the  tempest  rock  the  land, 

Our  faith  shall  live  —  our  truth  shall  stand. 

True  as  the  Vaudois  hemmed  around 
With  Papal  fire  and  Roman  steel  — 

Firm  as  the  Christian  heroine  bound 
Upon  Domitian's  torturing  wheel, 

We  'bate  no  breath  —  we  curb  no  thought 

Come  what  may  come,  WE  FALTER  NOT! 


THE    WORLD'S   CONVENTION.         143 


THE   WORLD'S   CONVENTION. 
OF  THE  FRIENDS  OF  EMANCIPATION,  HELD  IN  LONDON 

IN    1840. 

YES,  let  them  gather!  —  Summon  forth 
The  pledged  philanthropy  of  Earth, 
From  every  land,  whose  hills  have  heard 

The  bugle  blast  of  Freedom  waking ; 
Or  shrieking  of  her  symbol  bird  • 

From  out  his  cloudy  eyrie  breaking ; 
Where  Justice  hath  one  worshipper, 
Or  Truth  one  altar  built  to  her ; 
Where'er  a  human  eye  is  weeping 

O'er  wrongs  which  Earth's  sad  children  know  — 
Where'er  a  single  heart  is  keeping 

Its  prayerful  watch  with  human  woe  : 
Thence  let  them  come,  and  greet  each  other, 
And  know  in  each,  a  friend  and  brother! 

Yes,  let  them  come!  from  each  green  vale 

Where  England's  old  baronial  halls 

Still  bear  upon  their  storied  walls 
The  grim  crusader's  rusted  mail, 
Battered  by  Paynim  spear  and  brand 
On  iMalta's  rock  or  Syria's  sand! 
And  mouldering  pennon-staves  once  set 

Within  the  soil  of  Palestine, 
By  Jordan  and  Gennesaret ; 

Or,  borne  with  England's  battle  line, 


144  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

O'er  Acre's  shattered  turrets  stooping, 

Or,  midst  the  camp  their  banners  drooping, 

With  dews  from  hallowed  Hermon  wet, 
A  holier  summons  now  is  given 

Than  that  gray  hermit's  voice  of  old, 
Which  unto  all  the  winds  of  heaven 

The  banners  of  the  Cross  unrolled! 
Not  for  the  long  deserted  shrine,  — 

Not  for  the  dull  unconscious  sod, 
Which  tells  not  by  one  lingering  sigh 

That  there  the  hope  of  Israel  trod  ;  — 
But  for  that  TRUTH,  for  which  alone 

In  pilgrim  eyes  are  sanctified 
The  garden  moss,  the  mountain  stone, 
Whereon  His  holy  sandals  pressed  — 
The  fountain  which  His  lip  hath  Iplessed  — 
Whatever  hath  touched  his  garment's  hem 
At  Bethany  or  Bethlehem, 

Or  Jordan's  river  side. 
For  FREEDOM,  in  the  name  of  Him 

Who  came  to  raise  Earth's  drooping  poor, 
To  break  the  chain  from  every  limb  — 

The  bolt  from  every  prison  door! 
For  these,  o'er  all  the  Earth  hath  passed 
An  ever-deepening  trumpet  blast, 
As  if  an  angel's  breath  had  lent 
Its  vigor  to  the  instrument. 

And  Wales,  from  Snowden's  mountain  wall, 
Shall  startle  at  that  thrilling  call, 

As  if  she  heard  her  bards  again  ; 
And  Erin's  "  harp  on  Tara's  wall  " 

Give  out  its  ancient  strain, 


THE    WORLD'S  CONVENTION.         145 

Mirthful  and  sweet,  yet  sad  withal  — 

The  melody  which  Erin  loves, 
When  o'er  that  harp,  mid  bursts  of  gladness 
And  slogan  cries  and  lyke-wake  sadness, 

The  hand  of  her  O'Connell  moves  : 
Scotland,  from  lake  and  tarn  and  rill, 
And  mountain  hold,  and  heathery  hill, 

Shall  catch  and  echo  back  the  note, 
As  if  she  heard  upon  her  air 
Once  more  her  Cameronian's  prayer 

And  song  of  Freedom  float. 
And  cheering  echoes  shall  reply 
From  each  remote  dependency, 
Where  Britain's  mighty  sway  is  known, 
In  tropic  sea  or  frozen  zone ; 
Where'er  her  sunset  flag  is  furling, 
Or  morning  gun-fire's  smoke  is  curling ; 
From  Indian  Bengal's  groves  of  palm 
And  rosy  fields  and  gales  of  balm, 
Where  Eastern  pomp  and  power  are  rolled 
Through  regal  Ava's  gates  of  gold  ; 
And  from  the  lakes  and  ancient  woods 
And  dim  Canadian  solitudes, 
Whence,  sternly  from  her  rocky  throne, 
Queen  of  the  North,  Quebec  looks  down  ; 
And  from  those  bright  and  ransomed  Isles 
Where  all  unwonted  Freedom  smiles 
And  the  dark  laborer  still  retains 
The  scar  of  slavery's  broken  chains ! 

From  the  hoar  Alps,  which  sentinel 
The  gateways  of  the  land  of  Tell, 
Where  morning's  keen  and  earliest  glance 


146  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

On  Jura's  rocky  wall  is  thrown, 
And  from  the  olive  bower's  of  France 

The  vine  groves  garlanding  the  Rhone  — 
"  Friends  of  the  Blacks,1'  as  true  and  tried 
As  those  who  stood  by  Oge's  side  — 
Brissot  and  eloquent  Gregoire  — 
When  with  free  lip  and  heart  of  fire 
The  Haytien  told  his  country's  wrong, 
Shall  gather  at  that  summons  strong  — 
Broglie,  Passy,  and  him,  whose  song 
Breathed  over  Syria's  holy  sod, 
And  in  the  paths  which  Jesus  trod, 
And  murmured  midst  the  hills  which  hem 
Crownless  and  sad  Jerusalem, 
Hath  echoes  wheresoe'er  the  tone 
Of  Israel's  prophet-lyre  is  known. 

Still  let  them  come  —  from  Quito's  walls, 

And  from  the  Orinoco's  tide, 
From  Lima's  Inca-haunted  halls, 
From  Santa  Fe  and  Yucatan,  — 

Men  who  by  swart  Guerrero's  side 
Proclaimed  the  deathless  RIGHTS  OF  MAN, 

Broke  every  bond  and  fetter  off, 

And  hailed  in  every  sable  serf 
A  free  and  brother  Mexican! 
Chiefs  who  crossed  the  Andes1  chain 

Have  followed  Freedom's  flowing  pennon, 
And  seen  on  Junin's  fearful  plain, 
Glare  o'er  the  broken  ranks  of  Spain, 

The  fire-burst  of  Bolivar's  cannon! 
And  Hayti,  from  her  mountain  land> 


THE    WORLD'S   CONVENTION.         147 

Shall  send  the  sons  of  those  who  hurled 
Defiance  from  her  blazing  strand  — 
The  war-gage  from  her  Pe'tion's  hand. 

Alone  against  a  hostile  world. 

Nor  all  unmindful,  thou,  the  while. 
Land  of  the  dark  and  mystic  Nile!  — 

Thy  Moslem  mercy  yet  may  shame 

All  tyrants  of  a  Christian  name  — 
When  in  the  shade  of  Gezelf s  pile, 
Or,  where  from  Abyssinian  hills 
El  Gerek's  upper  fountain  fills, 
Or  where  from  mountains  of  the  Moon 
El  Abiad  bears  his  watery  boon. 
Where'er  thy  lotos  blossoms  swim 

Within  their  ancient  hallowed  waters  — 
Where'er  is  heard  thy  prophet's  hymn, 

Or  song  of  Nubia's  sable  daughters, 
The  curse  of  SLAVERY  and  the  crime, 
Thy  bequest  from  remotest  time, 
At  thy  dark  Mehemet's  decree 
For  evermore  shall  pass  from  thee ; 

And  chains  forsake  each  captive's  limb 
Of  all  those  tribes,  whose  hills  around 
Have  echoed  back  the  cymbal  sound 

And  victor  horn  of  Ibrahim. 

And  thou  whose  glory  and  whose  crime 
To  earth's  remotest  bound  and  clime, 
In  mingled  tones  of  awe  and  scorn, 
The  echoes  of  a  world  have  borne, 
My  country!  glorious  at  thy  birth, 


148  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

A  day-star  flashing  brightly  forth, — 

The  herald-sign  of  Freedom's  dawn ! 
Oh!  who  could  dream  that  saw  thee  then, 

And  watched  thy  rising  from  afar. 
That  vapors  from  oppression's  fen 

Would  cloud  the  upward-tending  star? 
Or,  that  earth's  tyrant  powers,  which  heard, 

Awe-struck,  the  shout  which  hailed  thy  dawning, 
Would  rise  so  soon,  prince,  peer,  and  king, 
To  mock  thee  with  their  welcoming, 
Like  Hades  when  her  thrones  were  stirred 

To  greet  the  down-cast  Star  of  Morning! 
"Aha!  and  art  thou  fallen  thus? 
Art  THOU  become  as  one  of  us?'1'' 

Land  of  my  fathers!  —  there  will  stand, 
Amidst  that  world-assembled  band. 
Those  owning  thy  maternal  claim 
Unweakened  by  thy  crime  and  shame,  — 
The  sad  reprovers  of  thy  wrong  — 
The  children  thou  hast  spurned  so  long. 
Still  with  affection's  fondest  yearning 
To  their  unnatural  mother  turning. 
No  traitors  they!  —  but  tried  and  leal, 
Whose  own  is  but  thy  general  weal, 
Still  blending  with  the  patriot's  zeal 
The  Christian's  love  for  human  kind, 
To  caste  and  climate  unconfined. 

A  holy  gathering !  —  peaceful  all  — 
No  threat  of  war  —  no  savage  call 
For  vengeance  on  an  erring  brother ; 


THE  ii'OKf.n's  mv/y-;.\"/'/(W.       140 

But  in  their  stead  the  God-like  plan 
To  teach  the  brotherhood  of  man 

To  love  and  reverence  one  another, 
As  sharers  of  a  common  blood  — 
The  children  of  a  common  God!  — 
Yet,  even  at  its  lightest  word. 
Shall  Slavery's  darkest  depths  be  stirred : 
Spain  watching  from  her  Mora's  keep 
Her  slave-ships  traversing  the  deep. 
And  Rio,  in  her  strength  and  pride, 
Lifting,  along  her  mountain  side, 
Her  snowy  battlements  and  towers  — 
Her  lemon  groves  and  tropic  bowers, 
With  bitter  hate  and  sullen  fear 
Its  freedom-giving  voice  shall  hear ; 
And  where  my  country's  flag  is  flowing, 
On  breezes  from  Mount  Vernon  blowing 

Above  the  Nation's  council-halls, 
Where  Freedom's  praise  is  loud  and  long, 

While,  close  beneath  the  outward  walls, 
The  driver  plies  his  reeking  thong  — 

The  hammer  of  the  man-thief  falls, 
O'er  hypocritic  cheek  and  brow 
The  crimson  flush  of  shame  shall  glow  : 
And  all  who  for  their  native  land 
Are  pledging  life  and  heart  and  hand  — 
Worn  watchers  o'er  her  changing  weal, 
Who  for  her  tarnished  honor  feel  — 
Through  cottage-door  and  council-hall 
Shall  thunder  an  awakening  call. 
The  pen  along  its  page  shall  burn 
With  all  intolerable  scorn  — 


150  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

And  eloquent  rebuke  shall  go 

On  all  the  winds  that  Southward  blow  ; 

From  priestly  lips  now  sealed  and  dumb, 

Warning  and  dread  appeal  shall  come, 

Like  those  which  Israel  heard  from  him, 

The  Prophet  of  the  Cherubim  — 

Or  those  which  sad  Esaias  hurled 

Against  a  sin-accursed  world! 

Its  wizard-leaves  the  Press  shall  fling 

Unceasing  from  its  iron  wing, 

With  characters  inscribed  thereon, 

As  fearful  in  the  despot's  hall 
As  to  the  pomp  of  Babylon 

The  fire-sign  on  the  palace  wall! 
And,  from  her  dark  iniquities, 
Methinks  I  see  my  country  rise : 
Not  challenging  the  nations  round 

To  note  her  tardy  justice  done  — 
Her  captives  from  their  chains  unbound, 

Her  prisons  opening  to  the  sun  ;  — 
But  tearfully  her  arms  extending 
Over  the  poor  and  unoffending ; 

Her  regal  emblem  now  no  longer 
A  bird  of  prey,  with  talons  reeking, 
Above  the  dying  captive  shrieking, 
But,  spreading  out  her  ample  wing  — 
A  broad,  impartial  covering  — 

The  weaker  sheltered  by  the  stronger! - 
Oh!  then  to  Faith's  anointed  eyes 

The  promised  token  shall  be  given ; 
And  on  a  nation^  sacrifice, 

Atoning  for  the  sin  of  years. 


NEW  HAMPSHIRE.  — 1845.  151 

And  wet  with  penitential  tears  — 
The  fire  shall  fall  from  Ik-uven! 


1839. 


NEW    HAMPSHIRE.— 1845. 


GOD     bless     New   Hampshire !  —  from    her   granite 

peaks 

Once  more  the  voice  of  Stark  and  Langdon  speaks. 
The  long-bound  vassal  of  the  exulting  South 

For  very   shame    her   self-forged    chain    has    bro 
ken — 
Torn  the  black  seal  of  slavery  from  her  mouth, 

And  in  the  clear  tones  of  her  old  time  spoken! 
Oh,  all  undreamed  of,  all  unhoped-for  changes'  — 

The  tyrant's  ally  proves  his  sternest  foe ; 
To  all  his  biddings,  from  her  mountain  ranges, 

New  Hampshire  thunders  an  indignant  No! 
Who  is  it  now  despairs?     Oh,  faint  of  heart, 

Look  upward  to  those  Northern  mountains  cold, 

Flouted  by  Freedom's  victor-flag  unrolled, 
And  gather  strength  to  bear  a  manlier  part! 
All  is  not  lost.     The  angel  of  God's  blessing 

Encamps  with  Freedom  on  the  field  of  fight ; 
Still  to  her  banner,  day  by  day,  are  pressing, 

Unlooked-for  allies,  striking  for  the  right! 
Courage,  then.  Northern  hearts !  —  Be  firm,  be  true  : 
What  one  brave.  State  hath  done,  can  ye  not  also 
do? 

1845. 


152  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 


THE   NEW    YEAR: 

ADDRESSED  TO  THE  PATRONS  OF  THE  PENNSYLVANU 
FREEMAN. 

THE  wave  is  breaking  on  the  shore  — 
The  echo  fading  from  the  chime  — 

Again  the  shadow  moveth  o'er 
The  dial-plate  of  time ! 

Oh,  seer-seen  Angel!  waiting  now 
With  weary  feet  on  sea  and  shore, 

Impatient  for  the  last  dread  vow 
That  time  shall  be  no  more !  — 

Once  more  across  thy  sleepless  eye 
The  semblance  of  a  smile  has  passed ; 

The  year  departing  leaves  more  nigh 
Time's  fearfullest  and  last. 

Oh !  in  that  dying  year  hath  been 
The  sum  of  all  since  ti.ne  began  -  - 

The  birth  and  death,  the  joy  and  pain, 
Of  Nature  and  of  Man. 

Spring,  with  her  change  of  sun  and  shower, 
And  streams  released  from  Winter's  chain, 

And  bursting  bud,  and  opening  flower, 
And  greenly-growing  grain ; 


THE   NEW    YEAR.  153 

And  Summer's  shade,  and  sunshine  warm, 
And  rainbows  o'er  her  hill-tops  bowed, 

And  voices  in  her  rising  storm  — 
God  speaking  from  his  cloud!  — 

And  Autumn's  fruits  and  clustering  sheaves, 
And  soft,  warm  clays  of  golden  light, 

The  glory  of  her  forest  leaves. 
And  harvest-moon  at  night ; 

And  Winter  with  her  leafless  grove, 

And  prisoned  stream,  and  drifting  snow, 

The  brilliance  of  her  heaven  above 
And  of  her  earth  below  :  — 

And  man  —  in  whom  an  angel's  mind 
With  earth's  low  instincts  finds  abode  — 

The  highest  of  the  links  which  bind 
Brute  nature  to  her  God  ; 

His  infant  eye  hath  seen  the  light, 

His  childhood's  merriest  laughter  rung, 

And  active  sports  to  manlier  might 
The  nerves  of  boyhood  strung! 

And  quiet  love,  and  passion's  fires, 

Have  soothed  or  burned  in  manhood's   breast, 
And  lofty  aims  and  low  desires 

By  turns  disturbed  his  rest. 

The  wailing  of  the  newly-born 

Has  mingled  with  the  funeral  knell ; 


154  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

And  o'er  the  dying's  ear  has  gone 
The  merry  marriage-bell. 

And  Wealth  has  filled  his  halls  with  mirth, 
While  Want,  in  many  a  humble  shed, 

Toiled,  shivering  by  her  cheerless  hearth, 
The  live-long  night  for  bread. 

And  worse  than  all  — the  human  slave  — 
The  sport  of  lust,  and  pride,  and  scorn  ! 

Plucked  off  the  crown  his  Maker  gave  — 
His  regal  manhood  gone! 

Oh!  still  my  country!  o'er  thy  plains, 
Blackened  with  slavery's  blight  and  ban, 

That  human  chattel  drags  his  chains  — 
An  uncreated  man! 

And  still,  where'er  to  sun  and  breeze, 
My  country,  is  thy  flag  unrolled, 

With  scorn,  the  gazing  stranger  sees 
A  stain  on  every  fold. 

Oh,  tear  the  gorgeous  emblem  down ! 

It  gathers  scorn  from  every  eye, 
And  despots  smile,  and  good  men  frown, 

Whene'er  it  passes  by. 

Shame!  shame!  its  starry  splendors  glow 
Above  the  slaver's  loathsome  jail  — 

Its  folds  are  ruffling  even  now 
His  crimson  flag  of  sale. 


THE  NEW   YEAR.  155 

Still  round  our  country's  proudest  hall 
The  trade  in  human  rlesh  is  driven. 

And  at  each  careless  hammer-fall 
A  human  heart  is  riven. 

And  this,  too,  ^Snctioned  by  the  men, 
Vested  with  power  to  shield  the  right, 

And  throw  each  vile  and  robber  den 
Wide  open  to  the  light. 

Yet  shame  upon  them !  —  there  they  sit, 
Men  of  the  North,  subdued  and  still ; 

Meek,  pliant  poltroons,  only  fit 
To  work  a  master's  will. 

Sold  —  bargained  off  for  Southern  votes  — 
A  passive  herd  of  Northern  mules, 

Just  braying  through  their  purchased  throats 
Whate'er  their  owner  rules. 

And  he l —  the  basest  of  the  base  — 
The  vilest  of  the  vile  —  whose  name, 

Embalmed  in  infinite  disgrace, 
Is  deathless  in  its  shame!  — 

A  tool  —  to  bolt  the  people's  door 

Against  the  people  clamoring  there, — 

An  ass —  to  trample  on  their  floor 
A  people's  right  of  prayer! 

1  The  Northern  author  of  the  Congressional  rule  against 
receiving  petitions  of  the  people  on  the  subject  of  Slavery. 


156  VOICES    OF  FREEDOM. 

Nailed  to  his  self-made  gibbet  fast, 
Self-pilloried  to  the  public  view  — 

A  mark  for  every  passing  blast 
Of  scorn  to  whistle  through  ; 

There  let  him  hang,  and  heSr  the  boast 
Of  Southrons  o'er  their  pliant  tool  — 

A  St.  Stylites  on  his  post, 
"  Sacred  to  ridicule!  " 

Look  we  at  home!  —  our  noble  hall, 
To  Freedom's  holy  purpose  given, 

Now  rears  its  black  and  ruined  wall, 
Beneath  the  wintry  heaven  — 

Telling  the  story  of  its  deom  — 

The  fiendish  mob  —  the  prostrate  law  — 

The  fiery  jet  through  midnight's  gloom, 
Our  gazing  thousands  saw. 

Look  to  our  State  —  the  poor  man's  right 
Torn  from  him  :  —  and  the  sons  of  those 

Whose  blood  in  Freedom's  sternest  fight 
Sprinkled  the  Jersey  snows. 

Outlawed  within  the  land  of  Penn, 

That  Slavery's  guilty  fears  might  cease, 

And  those  whom  God  created  men, 
Toil  on  as  brutes  in  peace. 

Yet  o'er  the  blackness  of  the  storm, 
A  bow  of  promise  bends  on  high, 


THE  NEW   YEAR.  157 

And  gleams  of  sunshine,  soft  and  warm. 
Break  through  our  clouded  sky. 

East,  West,  and  North,  the  shout  is  heard, 

Of  freemen  rising  for  the  right : 
Each  valley  hath  its  rallying  word  — 

Each  hill  its  signal  light. 

O'er  Massachusetts1  rocks  of  gray. 

The  strengthening  light  of  freedom  shines, 
Rhode  Island's  Narragansett  Bay  — 

And  Vermont's  snow-hung  pines! 

From  Hudson's  frowning  palisades 

To  Alleghany's  laurelled  crest, 
O'er  lakes  and  prairies,  streams  and  glades, 

It  shines  upon  the  West. 

Speed  on  the  light  to  those  who  dwell 

In  Slavery's  land  of  woe  and  sin, 
And  through  the  blackness  of  that  hell, 

Let  Heaven's  own  light  break  in. 

So  shall  the  Southern  conscience  quake, 
Before  that  light  poured  full  and  strong, 

So  shall  the  Southern  heart  awake 
To  all  the  bondman's  wrong. 

And  from  that  rich  and  sunny  land 

The  song  of  grateful  millions  rise, 
Like  that  of  Israel's  ransomed  band 

Beneath  Arabia's  skies : 


158  VOICES    OF  FREEDOM. 

And  all  who  now  are  bound  beneath 
Our  banner's  shade  —  our  eagle's  wing, 

From  Slavery's  night  of  moral  death 
To  light  and  life  shall  spring. 

Broken  the  bondman's  chain  —  and  gono 
The  master's  guilt,  and  hate,  and  fear, 
And  unto  both  alike  shall  dawn, 

A  New  and  Happy  Year. 
1839. 


MASSACHUSETTS  TO   VIRGINIA. 

[Written  on  reading  an  account  of  the  proceedings  of  the 
citizens  of  Norfolk,  Va.,  in  reference  to  GEORGE  LATIMER, 
the  alleged  fugitive  slave,  the  result  of  whose  case  in  Massa 
chusetts  will  probably  be  similar  to  that  of  the  negro  SOMER 
SET  in  England,  in  1772.] 

THE  blast  from  Freedom's  Northern  hills,  upon  its 

Southern  way, 
Bears    greeting    to     Virginia    from     Massachusetts 

Bay:  — 
No  word  of  haughty  challenging,  nor  battle  bugle's 

peal, 
Nor  steady   tread   of  marching  files,  nor  clang   of 

horsemen's  steel. 

No  trains  of  deep-mouthed  cannon  along  our  high 
ways  go  — 
Around  our  silent  arsenals  untrodden  lies  the  snow ; 


MASSACHUSETTS    TO   VIRGINIA.       159 

And  to  the   land   breeze   of  our  ports,   upon    their 

errands  far, 
A  thousand  sails  of  commerce  swell,  but  none  are 

spread  for  war. 

We   hear  thy  threats,  Virginia  !   thy  stormy  words 

and  hi.n'h, 
Swell    harshly  on    the    Southern   winds   which    melt 

along  our  sky ; 
Yet,  not  one  brown,  hard  hand  foregoes  its  honest 

labor  here  — 
No  hewer  of  our  mountain  oaks  suspends  his  axe  in 

fear. 

Wild  are  the  waves  which  lash  the  reefs  along  St. 

George's  bank  — 
Cold  on  the  shore  of  Labrador  the  fog  lies  white  and 

dank; 
Through  storm,  and  wave,  and  blinding  mist,  stout 

are  the  hearts  which  man 
The  fishing-smacks  of  Marblehead,  the  sea-boats  of 

Cape  Ann. 

The  cold  north  light  and  wintry  sun  glare  on  their 

icy  forms, 
Bent  grimly  o'er  their  straining  lines  or  wrestling 

with  the  storms ; 
Free  as  the  winds  they  drive  before,  rough  as  the 

waves  they  roam, 
They  laugh  to  scorn  the  slaver's  threat  against  their 

rocky  home. 


l6o  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

What  means  the  Old  Dominion?  Hath  she  forgot 
the  day 

When  o'er  her  conquered  valleys  swept  the  Briton's 
steel  array  ? 

How  side  by  side,  with  sons  of  hers,  the  Massachu 
setts  men 

Encountered  Tarleton's  charge  of  fire,  and  stout 
Cornwallis,  then? 

Forgets  she  how  the  Bay  State,  in  answer  to  the 

call 
Of    her   old   House   of  Burgesses,   spoke   out   from 

Faneuil  Hall? 
When,  echoing  back  her  Henry's  cry,  came  pulsing 

on  each  breath 
Of  Northern  winds,  the  thrilling  sounds  of  "  LIBERTY 

OR  DEATH!" 

What   asks   the   Old   Dominion?     If  now  her  sons 

have  proved 
False  to  their  fathers'  memory  —  false  to  the  faith 

they  loved ; 
If  she  can  scoff  at  Freedom,  and  its  great  charter 

spurn, 
Must    we    of    Massachusetts   from    truth   and   duty 

turn? 

We  hunt  your  bondmen,  flying  from  Slavery's  hate 
ful  hell - 

Our  voices,  at  your  bidding,  take  up  the  blood 
hound's  yell  — 


MASSACHUSETTS    TO   VIRGINIA.       l6l 

We   gather,   at    your   summons,    above    our   fathers' 

graves, 
From    Freedom's    holy    altar-horns    to    tear    your 

wretched  slaves! 


Thank   God!   not   yet   so   vilely  can   Massachusetts 

bow ; 

The  spirit  of  her  early  time  is  with  her  even  now ; 
Dream   not  because  her  Pilgrim  blood  moves  slow, 

and  calm,  and  cool, 
She   thus   can   stoop   her  chainless  neck,  a  sister's 

slave  and  tool! 


All  that  a  sister  State  should  do,  all  that  z.free  State 

may, 
Heart,  hand,  and  purse  we  proffer,  as   in  our  early 

day; 
But  that  one  dark  loathsome  burden  ye  must  stagger 

with  alone, 
And    reap   the   bitter   harvest    which    ye   yourselves 

have  sown! 


Hold,  while  ye  may,  your  struggling  slaves,  and 
burden  God's  free  air 

With  woman's  shriek  beneath  the  lash,  and  man 
hood's  wild  despair ; 

Cling  closer  to  the  "  cleaving  curse  "  that  writes  upon 
your  plains 

The  blasting  of  Almighty  wrath  against  a  land  of 
chains. 


1 62  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

Still  shame    your   gallant  ancestry,  the  cavaliers  of 

old, 
By   watching    round    the   shambles    where     human 

flesh  is  sold  — 
Gloat  o'er  the  new-born  child,  and  count  his  market 

value,  when 
The  maddened  mother's  cry  of  woe  shall  pierce  the 

slaver's  den! 

Lower  than  plummet  soundeth,    sink    the  Virginian 

name ; 
Plant,  if  ye  will,  your  fathers'  graves  with  rankest 

weeds  of  shame ; 

Be,  if  ye  will,  the  scandal  of  God's  fair  universe  — 
We  wash  our  hands  forever,  of  your  sin,  and  shame, 

and  curse. 

A  voice  from  lips  whereon  the  coal  from  Freedom's 

shrine  had  been, 
Thrilled,  as  but  yesterday,  the  hearts  of  Berkshire's 

mountain  men  : 
The  echoes  of  that  solemn  voice  are  sadly  lingering 

still 
In  all  our  sunny  valleys,  on  every  wind-swept  hill. 

And  when  the  prowling  man-thief  came  hunting  for 

his  prey 

Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  Bunker's  shaft  of  gray, 
How,  through  the  free  lips  of  the  son,  the  father's 

warning  spoke ; 
How,  from  its  bonds  of  trade  and  sect,  the  Pilgrim 

city  broke! 


MASSACHUSETTS    TO   VIRGINIA.       163 

A  hundred   thousand   right  arms  were  lifted   up  on 

high,— 
A    hundred    thousand    voices   sent   back   their  loud 

reply ; 
Through  the  thronged  towns  of  Essex  the  startling 

summons  rang, 
And  up  from  bench  and  loom  and  wheel  her  young 

mechanics  sprang! 

The  voice  of  free,  broad  Middlesex  — of  thousands 

as  of  one  — 

The  shaft  of  Bunker  calling  to  that  of  Lexington  — 
From  Norfolk's  ancient   villages;    from    Plymouth's 

rocky  bound 
To  where  Nantucket  feels  the  arms  of  ocean  close 

her  round ;  — 


From  rich  and  rural  Worcester,  where  through  the 

calm  repose 
Of  cultured   vales   and   fringing   woods    the    gentle 

Nashua  flows, 
To   where   Wachuset's  wintry  blasts    the  mountain 

larches  stir, 
Swelled  up  to  Heaven  the  thrilling  cry  of  "  God  save 

Latimer!  " 

And   sandy  Barnstable   rose  up,  wet  with  the  salt 

sea  spray  — 
And  Bristol  sent  her  answering  shout  down  Narra- 

gansett  Bay! 


1 64  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

Along  the  broad  Connecticut  old  Hampden  felt  the 

thrill, 
And  the  cheer  of  Hampshire's  woodmen  swept  down 

from  Holyoke  Hill. 

The  voice  of  Massachusetts!     Of  her  free  sons  and 

daughters  — 
Deep  calling  unto  deep  aloud  —  the  sound  of  many 

waters ! 
Against  the  burden  of  that  voice  what  tyrant  power 

shall  stand? 
No  fetters  in  the   Bay  State !     No  slave   upon   her 

land! 

Look  to  it  well,  Virginians!     In  calmness  we  have 

borne, 
In  answer  to  our   faith   and  trust,  your  insult  and 

your  scorn ; 
YouVe  spurned  our  kindest  counsels  —  you've  hunted 

for  our  lives  — 
And   shaken    round    our   hearths   and    homes    your 

manacles  and  gyves! 

We  wage  no  war  —  we  lift   no  arm  —  we  fling  no 

torch  within 
The  fire-damps  of  the  quaking  mine  beneath  your 

soil  of  sin; 
We  leave  ye  with  your  bondmen,  to  wrestle,  while 

ye  can, 
With  the   strong  upward   tendencies   and   God-like 

soul  of  man ! 


THE  RELIC.  165 

But  for  us  and  for  our  children,  the  vow  which  we 

have  given 

For  freedom  and  humanity,  is  registered  in  Heaven  ; 
No  slai'e-htint  in  our   borders-  — no  pirate  on   our 

stratldl  m 

A'..*  fetter*  in  the  Bay  State —  no  slave  upon  oit\*  land"1. 
I843- 


THE    RELIC. 

[PENNSYLVANIA  HALL,  dedicated  to  Free  Discussion  and 
the  cause  of  Human  Liberty,  was  destroyed  by  a  mob  in  1838. 
The  following  was  written  on  receiving  a  cane  wrought  from 
a  fragment  of  the  wood-work  which  the  fire  had  spared.] 

TOKEN  of  friendship  true  and  tried, 
From  one  whose  fiery  heart  of  youth 

With  mine  has  beaten,  side  by  side, 
For  Liberty  and  Truth  ; 

With  honest  pride  the  gift  I  take, 

And  prize  it  for  the  giver's  sake. 

But  not  alone  because  it  tells 

Of  generous  hand  and  heart  sincere  ; 

Around  that  gift  of  friendship  dwells 
A  memory  doubly  dear  — 

Earth's  noblest  aim  —  man's  holiest  thought, 

With  that  memorial  frail  inwrought! 

Pure  thoughts  and  sweet,  like  flowers  unfold, 
And  precious  memories  round  it  cling, 


1 66  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

Even  as  the  Prophet's  rod  of  old 

In  beauty  blossoming : 
And  buds  of  feeling  pure  and  good 
Spring  from  its  cold  unconscious  wood. 

• 
Relic  of  P>eedom's  shrine !  —  a  brand 

Plucked  from  its  burning!  —  let  it  be 
Dear  as  a  jewel  from  the  hand 

Of  a  lost  friend  to  me!  — 
Flower  of  a  perished  garland  left, 
Of  life  and  beauty  unbereft! 

Oh !  if  the  young  enthusiast  bears, 
O'er  weary  waste  and  sea,  the  stone 

Which  crumbled  from  the  Forum's  stairs, 
Or  round  the  Parthenon  ; 

Or  olive  bough  from  some  wild  tree 

Hung  over  old  Thermopylae  : 

If  leaflets  from  some  hero's  tomb, 

Or  moss-wreath  torn  from  ruins  hoary,  - 

Or  faded  flowers  whose  sisters  bloom 
On  fields  renowned  in  story, — 

Or  fragment  from  the  Alhambra's  crest, 

Or  the  gray  rock  by  druids  blessed ; 

Sad  Erin's  shamrock  greenly  growing 
Where  Freedom  led  her  stalwart  kern, 

Or  Scotia's  "  rough  burr  thistle  "  blowing 
On  Bruce's  Bannockburn  — 

Or  Runnymede's  wild  English  rose, 

Or  lichen  plucked  from  Sempach's  snows!- 


THE  RELIC.  167 

If  it  be  true  that  things  like  these 
To  heart  and  eye  bright  visions  bring, 

Shall  not  far  holier  memories 
To  this  memorial  cling? 

Which  needs  no  mellowing  mist  of  time 

To  hide  the  crimson  stains  of  crime! 

Wreck  of  a  temple,  unprofaned  — 

Of  courts  where  Peace  and  Freedom  trod, 

Lifting  on  high,  with  hands  unstained, 
Thanksgiving  unto  God ; 

Where  Mercy's  voice  of  love  was  pleading 

For  human  hearts  in  bondage  bleeding!  — 

Where  midst  the  sound  of  rushing  feet 

And  curses  on  the  night  air  flung, 
That  pleading  voice  rose  calm  and  sweet 

From  woman's  earnest  tongue  ; 
And  Riot  turned  his  scowling  glance, 
Awed,  from  her  tranquil  countenance! 

That  temple  now  in  ruin  lies!  — 
The  fire-stain  on  its  shattered  wall, 

And  open  to  the  changing  skies 
Its  black  and  roofless  hall, 

It  stands  before  a  nation's  sight, 

A  grave-stone  over  buried  Right! 

But  from  that  ruin,  as  of  old, 

The  fire-scorched  stones  themselves  are  crying, 
And  from  their  ashes  white  and  cold 

Its  timbers  are  replying! 


1 68  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

A  voice  which  slavery  cannot  kill 
Speaks  from  the  crumbling  arches  still ! 

And  even  this  relic  from  thy  shrine, 
Oh,  holy  Freedom!  —  hath  to  me 

A  potent  power,  a  voice  and  sign 
To  testify  of  thee  ; 

And,  grasping  it,  methinks  I  feel 

A  deeper  faith,  a  stronger  zeal. 

And  not  unlike  that  mystic  rod, 
Of  old  stretched  o'er  the  Egyptian  wave, 

Which  opened,  in  the  strength  of  God, 
A  pathway  for  the  slave, 

It  yet  may  point  the  bondman's  way, 

And  turn  the  spoiler  from  his  prey. 

1839. 


STANZAS    FOR   THE   TIMES.  — 1844. 

[Written  on  reading  the  sentence  of  JOHN  L.  BROWN,  of 
South  Carolina,  to  be  executed  on  the  25th  of  4th  month,  1844, 
for  the  crime  of  assisting  a  female  slave  to  escape  from  bond 
age.  The  sentence  was  afterwards  commuted.] 

Ho!  thou  who  seekest  late  and  long 

A  license  from  the  Holy  Book 
For  brutal  lust  and  hell's  red  wrong, 

Man  of  the  pulpit,  look!  — 
Lift  up  those  cold  and  atheist  eyes, 

This  ripe  fruit  of  thy  teaching  see  ; 


STANZAS  FOR    THE    TIMES.  — 1844.      169 

And  tell  us  how  to  Heaven  will  rise 
The  incense  of  this  sacrifice  — 

This  blossom  of  the  Gallows  Tree  !  — 

Search  out  for  SLAVERY'S  hour  of  need 

Some  fitting  text  of  sacred  writ ; 1 
Give  Heaven  the  credit  of  a  deed 

Which  shames  the  nether  pit. 
Kneel,  smooth  blasphemer,  unto  Him 

Whose  truth  is  on  thy  lips  a  lie. 
Ask  that  His  bright-winged  cherubim 
May  bend  around  that  scaffold  grim 

To  guard  and  bless  and  sanctify !  — 

Ho  !  champion  of  the  people's  cause  — 

Suspend  thy  loud  and  vain  rebuke 
Of  foreign  wrong  and  Old  World  laws, 

Man  of  the  Senate,  look!  — 
Was  this  the  promise  of  the  free,  — 

The  great  hope  of  our  early  time,  — 
That  Slavery's  poison  vine  should  be 
Upborne  by  Freedom's  prayer-nursed  tree, 

O'erclustered  with  such  fruits  of  crime  ?  — 

Send  out  the  summons,  East  and  West. 

And  South  and  North,  let  all  be  there, 
Where  he  who  pitied  the  oppressed 

Swings  out  in  sun  and  air. 

i  Three  new  publications,  from  the  pens  of  Dr.  Junkin, 
President  of  Miami  College,  Alexander  McCaine  of  the  Meth 
odist  Protestant  church,  and  of  a  clergyman  of  the  Cincinnati 
Synod,  defending  Slavery  on  Scriptural  ground,  have  recently 
made  their  appearance. 


I/O  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

Let  not  a  democratic  hand 

The  grisly  hangman's  task  refuse  ; 

There  let  each  loyal  patriot  stand 

Awaiting  Slavery's  command 

To  twist  the  rope  and  draw  the  noose! 

But  vain  is  irony —  unmeet 

Its  cold  rebuke  for  deeds  which  start 
In  fiery  and  indignant  beat 

The  pulses  of  the  heart. 
Leave  studied  wit,  and  guarded  phrase  ; 

And  all  that  kindled  heart  can  feel 
Speak  out  in  earnest  words  which  raise, 
Where'er  they  fall,  an  answering  blaze, 

Like  flints  which  strike  the  fire  from  steel. 

Still  let  a  mousing  priesthood  ply 

Their  garbled  text  and  gloss  of  sin, 
And  make  the  lettered  scroll  deny 

Its  living  soul  within  ; 
Still  let  the  place-fed  titled  knave 

Plead  Robbery's  right  with  purchased  lips, 
And  tell  us  that  our  fathers  gave 
For  Freedom's  pedestal,  a  slave, 

For  frieze  and  moulding,  chains  and  whips ! 

But  ye  who  own  that  higher  law 
Whose  tables  in  the  heart  are  set, 

Speak  out  in  words  of  power  and  awe 
That  God  is  living  yet! 

Breathe  forth  once  more  those  tones  sublime 
Which  thrilled  the  burdened  prophet's  lyre, 


STANZAS  FOR    THE    TIMES.  —  1844,       \  ; 

And  in  a  dark  and  evil  time 
Smote  down  on  Israel's  last  of  crime 
And  gift  of  blood,  a  rain  of  fire! 


Oh,  not  for  us  the  graceful  lay, 

To  whose  soft  measures  lightly  move 
The  Dryad  and  the  woodland  Fay, 

O'erlooked  by  Mirth  and  Love  ; 
Hut  such  a  stern  and  startling  strain 

As  Britain's  hunted  bards  flung  down 
From  Snowden,  to  the  conquered  plain, 
Where  harshly  clanked  the  Saxon  chain 

On  trampled  field  and  smoking  town. 

By  Liberty's  dishonored  name, 

By  man's  lost  hope,  and  failing  trust, 
By  words  and  deeds,  which  bow  with  shame 

Our  foreheads  to  the  dust,  — 
By  the  exulting  tyrant's  sneer, 

Borne  to  us  from  the  Old  World's  thrones, 
And  by  their  grief,  who  pining  hear, 
In  sunless  mines  and  dungeons  drear, 

How  Freedom's  land  her  faith  disowns  ;  — 

Speak  out  in  acts ;  the  time  for  words 
Has  passed,  and  deeds  alone  suffice  ; 

In  the  loud  clang  of  meeting  swords 
The  softer  music  dies ! 

Act  —  act.  in  God's  name,  while  ye  may, 
Smite  from  the  church  her  leprous  limb, 

Throw  opei:  to  the  light  of  day 


172  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

The  bondman's  cell,  and  break  away 
The  chains  the  state  has  bound  on  him. 


Ho!  every  true  and  living  soul, 

To  Freedom's  perilled  altar  bear 
The  freeman's  and  the  Christian's  whole, 

Tongue,  pen,  and  vote,  and  prayer! 
One  last  great  battle  for  the  Right,  — 

One  short,  sharp  struggle  to  be  free! 
To  do  is  to  succeed  —  our  fight 
Is  waged  in  Heaven's  approving  sight  — 

The  smile  of  God  is  Victory! 

1844. 


THE    BRANDED    HAND. 

[CAPTAIN  JONATHAN  WALKER,  of  Harwich,  Mass.,  was 
solicited  by  several  fugitive  slaves  at  Pensacola,  Florida,  to 
convey  them  in  his  vessel  to  the  British  West  Indies.  Al 
though  well  aware  of  the  hazard  of  the  enterprise,  he  attempted 
to  comply  with  their  request.  He  was  seized  by  an  American 
vessel,  consigned  to  the  American  authorities  at  Key  West, 
and  by  them  taken  back  to  Florida  —  where,  after  a  long  and 
rigorous  imprisonment  he  was  brought  to  trial.  He  was 
sentenced  to  be  branded  on  the  right  hand  with  the  letters 
"  S.  S."  (  "  Slave  Stealer  ")  and  amerced  in  a  heavy  fine.  He 
was  released  on  the  payment  of  his  fine  in  the  6th  month  of 
1845.] 

WELCOME    home   again,   brave    seaman!    with    thy 

thoughtful  brow  and  gray, 
And  the  old  heroic  spirit  of  our  earlier,  better  day  — 


THE   BRANDED  HAND.  173 

With  that  front  of  calm  endurance,  on  whose  steady 

nerve,  in  vain 
Pressed  the  iron  of  the  prison,  smote  the  fiery  shafts 

of  pain! 

Is  the  tyrant's   brand   upon   thee?      Did   the  brutal 

cravens  aim 
To  make  God's  truth  thy  falsehood,  His  holiest  work 

thy  shame? 
When,  all  blood-quenched,  from  the  torture  the  iron 

was  withdrawn, 
How  laughed  their  evil  angel   the   baffled  fools   to 


They  change   to   wrong,  the  duty  which   God  hath 

written  out 
On   the    great    heart   of    humanity   too    legible   for 

doubt! 
They,   the    loathsome    moral    lepers,    blotched    from 

footsole  up  to  crown. 
Give  to  shame  what  God  hath  given  unto  honor  and 

renown! 

Why,  that  brand  is  highest  honor!  —  than  its  traces 

never  yet 
Upon  old  armorial  hatchments  was  a  prouder  blazon 

set; 
And  thy  unborn  generations,  as  they  tread  our  rocky 

strand, 
Shall    tell    with    pride    the    story   of    their   father's 

BRANDED   HAND! 


1/4  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

As  the  Templar  home  was  welcomed,  bearing  back 

from  Syrian  wars 

The  scars  of  Arab  lances,  and  of  Paynim  scimitars. 
The  pallor  of  the  prison  and  the  shackle's  crimson 

span, 
So  we  meet  thee,  so  we  greet  thee,  truest  friend  of 

God  and  man! 

He  suffered  for  the  ransom  of  the  dear  Redeemer's 

grave, 
Thou   for    His   living   presence    in    the   bound   and 

bleeding  slave ; 

He  for  a  soil  no  longer  by  the  feet  of  angels  trod, 
Thou  for  the  true  Shechinah,  the  present  home  of  God! 

For,  while  the  jurist  sitting  with  the  slave-whip  o'er 
him  swung, 

From  the  tortured  truths  of  freedom  the  lie  of  slavery 
wrung, 

And  the  solemn  priest  to  Moloch,  on  each  God- 
deserted  shrine, 

Broke  the  bondman's  heart  for  bread,  poured  the 
bondman's  blood  for  wine  — 

While  the  multitude  in  blindness  to  a  far-off  Saviour 

knelt, 
And  spurned,  the  while,  the  temple  where  a  present 

Saviour  dwelt ; 
Thou  beheld'st  Him  in  the  task-field,  in  the  prison 

shadows  dim, 
And  thy  mercy  to  the  bondman,  it  was  mercy  unto 

Him! 


THE  BRANDED   HAX1).  175 

In  the  lone  and  long  night  watches,  sky  above  and 

wave  below, 
Thou  did'st  learn  a  higher  wisdom  than  the  babbling 

school-men  know ; 
God's  stars  and  silence  taught  thee,  as  His  angels 

only  can, 
That  the  one,  sole  sacred  thing  beneath  the  cope  of 

heaven  is  Man! 

That  he  who  treads  profanely  on  the  scrolls  of  law 

and  creed, 
in  the  depth  of  God's  great  goodness  may  find  mercy 

in  his  need ; 
But  woe  to  him  who  crushes  the  SOUL  with  chain 

and  rod, 
And   herds   with  lower   natures   the   awful   form    of 

God! 

Then  lift  thy  manly  right  hand,  bold  ploughman  of 

the  wave! 
Its  branded  palm  shall  prophesy,  "SALVATION   TO 

THE  SLAVE!" 
Hold  up  its  fire-wrought  language,  that  whoso  reads 

may  feel 
His  heart  swell  strong  within  him,  his  sinews  change 

to  steel. 

Hold  it  up  before  our  sunshine,  up  against  our  North 
ern  air  — 

Ho!  men  of  Massachusetts,  for  the  love  of  God  look 
there ! 


1/6  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM, 

Take   it    henceforth    for   your    standard  —  like    the 

Bruce's  heart  of  yore, 
In  the  dark  strife  closing  round  ye,  let  that  hand  be 

seen  before! 


And  the  tyrants  of  the  slave-land  shall  tremble  at 
that  sign, 

When  it  points  its  finger  Southward  along  the  Puri 
tan  line : 

Woe  to  the  State-gorged  leeches,  and  the  Church's 
locust  band, 

When  they  look  from  slavery's  ramparts  on  the  com 
ing  of  that  hand! 

1846. 


TEXAS. 
VOICE  OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

UP  the  hill-side,  down  the  glen, 
Rouse  the  sleeping  citizen  ; 
Summon  out  the  might  of  men! 

Like  a  lion  growling  low  — 
Like  a  night-storm  rising  slow  — 
Like  the  tread  of  unseen  foe  — 

It  is  coming — it  is  nigh! 
Stand  your  homes  and  altars  by ; 
On  your  own  free  thresholds  die! 


TEXAS.  177 

Clang  the  bells  in  all  your  spires ; 
On  the  gray  hills  of  your  sires 
Fling  to  heaven  your  signal  fires! 

From  Wachuset.  lone  and  bleak, 

Unto  Berkshire's  tallest  peak, 

Let  the  tlame-tongued  heralds  speak! 

O !  for  God  and  duty  stand, 
Heart  to  heart  and  hand  to  hand, 
Round  the  old  graves  of  the  land! 

Whoso  shrinks  or  falters  now, 
Whoso  to  the  yoke  would  bow, 
Brand  the  craven  on  his  brow! 

Freedom's  soil  hath  only  place 
For  a  free  and  fearless  race  — 
None  for  traitors  false  and  base. 

Perish  party  —  perish  clan  ; 
Strike  together  while  ye  can, 
Like  the  arm  of  one  strong  man! 

Like  that  angel's  voice  sublime, 
Heard  above  a  world  of  crime. 
Crying  of  the  end  of  time  — 

With  one  heart  and  with  one  mouth? 
Let  the  North  unto  the  South 
Speak  the  word  befitting  both  : 


178  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

"What  though  Issachar  be  strong! 
Ye  may  load  his  back  with  wrong 
Overmuch  and  over  long  : 

"  Patience  with  her  cup  o'errun, 
With  her  weary  thread  outspun, 
Murmurs  that  her  work  is  done. 

"  Make  our  Union-bond  a  chain, 
Weak  as  tow  in  Freedom's  strain 
Link  by  link  shall  snap  in  twain. 

"  Vainly  shall  your  sand-wrought  rope 
Bind  the  starry  cluster  up, 
Shattered  over  heaven's  blue  cope! 

"  Give  us  bright  though  broken  rays, 
Rather  than  eternal  haze, 
Clouding  o'er  the  full-orbed  blaze! 

"  Take  your  land  of  sun  and  bloom  ; 
Only  leave  to  Freedom  room 
For  her  plough,  and  forge,-  and  loom ; 

"  Take  your  slavery-blackened  vales  ; 
Leave  us  but  our  own  free  gales, 
Blowing  on  our  thousand  sails ! 

"  Boldly,  or  with  treacherous  art, 
Strike  the  blood-wrought  chain  apart ; 
Break  the  Union's  mighty  heart ; 


TEXAS.  1 79 

"Work  the  ruin,  if  ye  will ; 
Pluck  upon  your  heads  an  ill 
Which  shall  grow  and  deepen  still! 

••  With  your  bondman's  right  arm  bare, 
With  his  heart  of  black  despair, 
Stand  alone,  if  stand  ye  dare! 

"  Onward  with  your  fell  design  ; 
Dig  the  gulf  and  draw  the  line  : 
Fire  beneath  your  feet  the  mine : 

"  Deeply,  when  the  wide  abyss 
Yawns  between  your  land  and  this, 
Shall  ye  feel  your  helplessness. 

"  By  the  hearth,  and  in  the  bed, 
Shaken  by  a  look  or  tread, 
Ye  shall  own  a  guilty  dread. 

"  And  the  curse  of  unpaid  toil, 
Downward  through  your  generous  soil 
Like  a  fire  shall  burn  and  spoil. 

"  Our  bleak  hills  shall  bud  and  blow, 
Vines  our  rocks  shall  overgrow, 
Plenty  in  our  valleys  flow ;  — 

"  And  when  vengeance  clouds  your  skies. 
Hither  shall  ye  turn  your  eyes, 
As  the  lost  on  Paradise.' 


180  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

"  We  but  ask  our  rocky  strand, 
Freedom's  true  and  brother  band, 
Freedom's  strong  and  honest  hand, 

"  Valleys  by  the  slave  untrod, 
And  the  Pilgrim's  mountain  sod, 
Blessed  of  our  fathers1  God!  " 

1844- 


TO   FANEUIL  HALL. 

[Written  in  1844,  on  reading  a  call  by  "  a  Massachusetts 
Freeman"  for  a  meeting  in  Faneuil  Hall  of  the  citizens  of 
Massachusetts,  without  distinction  of  party,  opposed  to  the 
annexation  of  Texas,  and  the  aggressions  of  South  Carolina, 
and  in  favor  of  decisive  action  against  Slavery.] 

MEN!  —  if  manhood  still  ye  claim, 

If  the  Northern  pulse  can  thrill, 
Roused  by  wrong  or  stung  by  shame, 

Freely,  strongly  still :  — 
Let  the  sounds  of  traffic  die  : 

Shut  the  mill-gate  —  leave  the  stall  — 
Fling  the  axe  and  hammer  by  — 

Throng  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 

Wrongs  which  freemen  never  brooked  — 
Dangers  grim  and  fierce  as  they, 

Which,  like  couching  lions,  looked 
On  your  fathers'  way  ;  — 


TO  FANEUII.    HALL.  'l8l 

These  your  instant  zeal  demand, 
Shaking  with  their  earthquake-call 

Every  rood  of  Pilgrim  land  — 
Ho,  to  Faneuil  Hall! 

From  your  capes  and  sandy  bars  — 

From  your  mountain-ridges  cold, 
Through  whose  pines  the  westering  stars 

Stoop  their  crowns  of  gold  — 
Come,  and  with  your  footsteps  wake 

Echoes  from  that  holy  wall : 
Once  again,  for  Freedom's  sake, 

Rock  your  fathers'  hall ! 

Up,  and  tread  beneath  yoiu  feet 

Every  cord  by  party  spun  ; 
Let  your  hearts  together  beat 

As  the  heart  of  one. 
Banks  and  tariffs,  stocks  and  trade, 

Let  them  rise  or  let  them  fall : 
Freedom  asks  your  common  aid  — 

Up,  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 

Up.  and  let  each  voice  that  speaks 

Ring  from  thence  to  Southern  plains, 
Sharply  as  the  blow  which  breaks 

Prison-bolts  and  chains! 
Speak  as  well  becomes  the  free  — 

Dreaded  more  than  steel  or  ball, 
Shall  your  calmest  utterance  be, 

Heard  from  Faneuil  Hall! 


1 82  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

Have  they  wronged  us?     Let  us  then 

Render  back  nor  threats  nor  prayers  ; 
Have  they  chained  our  free-born  men  ? 

LET  us  UNCHAIN  THEIRS! 
Up !  your  banner  leads  the  van, 

Blazoned  «  Liberty  for  all !  " 
Finish  what  your  sires  began  — 

Up,  to  Faneuil  Hall! 

1844. 

TO   MASSACHUSETTS. 

WRITTEN  DURING  THE  PENDING  OF  THE  TEXAS 
QUESTION. 

WHAT  though  around  thee  blazes 

No  fiery  rallying  sign? 
From  all  thy  own  high  places, 

Give  heaven  the  light  of  thine! 
What  though  unthrilled,  unmoving, 

The  statesman  stands  apart, 
And  comes  no  warm  approving 

From  Mammon's  crowded  mart? 

Still  let  the  land  be  shaken 

By  a  summons  of  thine  own! 
By  all  save  truth  forsaken, 

Why,  stand  with  that  alone! 
Shrink  not  from  strife  unequal! 

With  the  best  is  always  hope ; 
And  ever  in  the  sequel 

God  holds  the  right  side  up! 


TO  MASSACHUSETTS.  183 

But  when,  with  thine  uniting, 

Come  voices  long  and  loud, 
And  far-off  hills  are  writing 

Thy  fire-words  on  the  cloud : 
When  from  Penobscof s  fountains 

A  deep  response  is  heard, 
And  across  the  Western  mountains 

Rolls  back  thy  rallying  word ; 

Shall  thy  line  of  battle  falter, 

With  its  allies  just  in  view  ? 
Oh,  by  hearth  and  holy  altar, 

My  Fatherland,  be  true! 
Fling  abroad  thy  scrolls  of  Freedom! 

Speed  them  onward  far  and  fast! 
Over  hill  and  valley  speed  them, 

Like  the  Sibyl's  on  the  blast ! 

Lo!  the  Empire  State  is  shaking 

The  shackles  from  her  hand  ; 
With  the  rugged  North  is  waking 

The  level  sunset  land! 
On  they  come—  the  free  battalions! 

East  and  West  and  North  they 
And  the  heart-beat  of  the  millions 

Is  the  beat  of  Freedom's  drum. 

"  To  the  tyrant1  s  plot  no  favor! 

No  heed  to  place-fed  knaves! 
Bar  and  bolt  the  door  forever 

Against  the  land  of  Slaves!  " 


1 84  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

Hear  it,  mother  Earth,  and  hear  it. 

The  Heavens  above  us  spread! 
The  land  is  roused  —  its  spirit 

Was  sleeping,  but  not  dead! 

1844- 


THE   PINE   TREE. 

Written  on  hearing  that  the  Anti-Slavery  Resolves  of 
STEPHEN  C.  PHILLIPS  had  been  rejected  by  the  Whig  Con 
vention  in  Faneuil  Hall,  in  1846. 

LIFT  again  the  stately  emblem  on  the  Bay  State's 
rusted  shield, 

Give  to  Northern  winds  the  Pine  Tree  on  our  ban 
ner's  tattered  field, 

Sons  of  men  who  sat  in  council  with  their  Bibles 
round  the  board, 

Answering    England's   royal    missive   with    a   firm, 

"THUS   SAITH    THE    LORD !  " 

Rise  again  for  home  and  freedom!  —  set  the  battle 

in  array!  — 
What   the   fathers   did   of  old   time   we   their  sons 

must  do  to-day. 

Tell  us  not  of  banks  and  tariffs  —  cease  your  paltry 
pedler  cries  — 

Shall  the  good  State  sink  her  honor  that  your  gam 
bling  stocks  may  rise? 

Would  ye  barter  man  for  cotton  ?  —  That  your  gains 
may  be  the  same. 


7  Y/A    riNE   TREE.  185 

Must  we  kiss  the  feet  of  Moloch,  pass  our  children 
through  the  flame? 

Is  the  dollar  only  real?  —  God  and  truth  and  right 
a  dream  ? 

Weighed  against  your  lying  ledgers  must  our  man 
hood  kick  the  beam? 

Oh,  my  God!  —  for  that  free  spirit,  which  of  old  in 

Boston  town 
Smote  the  Province   House  with   terror,  struck  the 

crest  of  Andros  down!  — 
For  another  strong-voiced  Adams  in  the  city's  streets 

to  cry : 
"Up  for  God  and  Massachusetts!  —  Set  your  feet  on 

Mammon's  lie! 
Perish  banks  and  perish  traffic  —  spin  your  cotton's 

latest  pound  — 
But  in  Heaven's  name  keep  your  honor  —  keep  the 

heart  o1  the  Bay  State  sound!" 

Where's  the  MAN  for  Massachusetts? — Where's  the 

voice  to  speak  her  free  ?  — 
Where's   the   hand   to   light   up   bonfires    from    her 

mountains  to  the  sea? 
Beats  her  Pilgrim  pulse  no  longer?  —  Sits  she  dumb 

in  her  despair?  — 
Has  she  none  to  break  the  silence? — Has  she  none 

to  do  and  dare  ? 
Oh    my  God!    for  one  right  worthy  to  lift  up   her 

rusted  shield, 
And  to  plant  again  the  Pine  Tree  in  her  banner's 

tattered  field! 

1846. 


1 86  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 


LINES 

SUGGESTED  BY  A  VISIT  TO  THE  CITY  OF  WASHINGTON 
IN  THE  I2TH  MONTH  OF  1845. 

WITH  a  cold  and  wintry  noon-light, 

On  its  roofs  and  steeples  shed, 
Shadows  weaving  with  the  sun-light 

From  the  gray  sky  overhead, 

Broadly,  vaguely,  all  around  me,  lies  the  half-built 
town  outspread. 

Through  this  broad  street,  restless  ever, 

Ebbs  and  flows  a  human  tide, 
Wave  on  wave  a  living  river ; 

Wealth  and  fashion  side  by  side  ; 
Toiler,  idler,  slave  and  master,  in  the   same  quick 
current  glide. 

Underneath  yon  dome,  whose  coping 
Springs  above  them,  vast  and  tall, 
Grave  men  in  the  dust  are  groping 
For  the  largess,  base  and  small, 

Which    the    hand    of    Powrer   is    scattering,    crumbs 
which  from  its  table  fall. 

Base  of  heart!     They  vilely  barter 

Honor's  wealth  for  party's  place : 

Step  by  step  on  Freedom's  charter 

Leaving  footprints  of  disgrace  ; 

For  to-day's  poor   pittance  turning   from   the  great 
hope  of  their  race- 


LINES.  187 

Yet,  where  festal  lamps  are  throwing 

Glory  round  the  dancer's  hair. 
Gold-tressed,  like  an  angel's  flowing 

Backward  on  the  sunset  air ; 

And  the  low  quick  pulse  of  music  beats  its  measures 
sweet  and  rare : 

There  to-night  shall  woman's  glances, 

Star-like,  welcome  give  to  them, 
Fawning  fools  with  shy  advances 

Seek  to  touch  their  garments1  hem, 
With  the  tongue  of  flattery  glozing  deeds  which  God 
and  Truth  condemn. 

From  this  glittering  lie  my  vision 
Takes  a  broader,  sadder  range, 
Full  before  me  have  arisen 

Other  pictures  dark  and  strange  ; 
From  the  parlor  to  the  prison  must  the  scene  and 
witness  change. 

Hark!  the  heavy  gate  is  swinging 
On  its  hinges,  harsh  and  slow  ; 
One  pale  prison  lamp  is  flinging 

On  a  fearful  group  below 

Such  a  light  as  leaves  to  terror  whatsoe'er  it  does 
not  show. 

Pitying  God!  — Is  that  a  WOMAN 
On  whose  wrist  the  shackles  clash? 

Is  that  shriek  she  utters  human, 
Underneath  the  stinging  lash? 


188  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

Are  they  MEN  whose  eyes  of  madness  from  that  sad 
procession  flash? 

Still  the  dance  goes  gayly  onward! 

What  is  it  to  Wealth  and  Pride, 

That  without  the  stars  are  looking 

On  a  scene  which  earth  should  hide? 
That    the   SLAVE-SHIP   lies   in   waiting,  rocking   on 
Potomac's  tide! 

Vainly  to  that  mean  Ambition 

Which,  upon  a  rival's  fall, 
Winds  above  its  old  condition, 
With  a  reptile's  slimy  crawl, 

Shall  the  pleading  voice  of  sorrow,  shall  the  slave  in 
anguish  call. 

Vainly  to  the  child  of  Fashion, 

Giving  to  ideal  woe 
Graceful  luxury  of  compassion, 

Shall  the  stricken  mourner  go  ; 

Hateful  seems  the  earnest  sorrow,  beautiful  the  hol 
low  show! 

Nay,  my  words  are  all  too  sweeping : 

In  this  crowded  human  mart 
Feeling  is  not  dead,  but  sleeping ; 

Man's  strong  will  and  woman's  heart, 
In  the  coming  strife  for  Freedom,  yet  shall  bear  their 
generous  part. 

And  from  yonder  sunny  valleys, 
Southward  in  the  distance  lost, 


LINES.  189 

Freedom  yet  shall  summon  allies 

Worthier  than  the  North  can  boast, 
With  the  Evil  by  their  hearth-stones  grappling  at 
severer  cost. 

Now,  the  soul  alone  is  willing : 

Faint  the  heart  and  weak  the  knee ; 
And  as  yet  no  lip  is  thrilling 

With  the  mighty  words  "  BE  FREE!  " 
Tarrieth  long  the  land's  Good  Angel,  but  his  advent 
is  to  be! 

Meanwhile,  turning  from  the  revel 

To  the  prison-cell  my  sight, 
For  intenser  hate  of  evil, 

For  a  keener  sense  of  right, 

Shaking  off  thy  dust,  I  thank  thee,  City  of  the  Slaves, 
to-night! 

uTo  thy  duty  now  and  ever! 

Dream  no  more  of  rest  or  stay  ; 
Give  to  Freedom's  great  endeavor 

All  thou  art  and  hast  to-day :  "  — 
Thus,   above   the   city's  murmur,  saith   a  Voice   or 
seems  to  say. 

Ye  with  heart  and  vision  gifted 

To  discern  and  love  the  right, 
Whose  worn"  faces  have  been  lifted 

To  the  slowly-growing  li^ht, 

Where  from  Freedom's  sunrise  drifted  slowly  back 
the  murk  of  night!  — 


I QO  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

Ye  who  through  long  years  of  trial 

Still  have  held  your  purpose  fast, 

While  a  lengthening  shade  the  dial 

From  the  westering  sunshine  cast, 
And  of  hope  each  hour's  denial  seemed  an  echo  of 
the  last!  — 

Oh,  my  brothers!  oh,  my  sisters! 

Would  to  God  that  ye  were  near. 
Gazing  with  me  clown  the  vistas 

Of  a  sorrow  strange  and  drear ; 

Would  to  God  that  ye  were  listening  to  the  Voice  I 
seem  to  hear! 

With  the  storm  above  us  driving, 

With  the  false  earth  mined  below  — 
Who  shall  marvel  if  thus  striving 
We  have  counted  friend  as  foe ; 

Unto  one  another  giving  in  the  darkness  blow  for 
blow  ? 

Well  it  may  be  that  our  natures 

Have  grown  sterner  and  more  hard, 
And  the  freshness  of  their  features 

Somewhat  harsh  and  battle-scarred, 
And  their  harmonies  of  feeling  overtasked  and  rudely 
jarred. 

Be  it  so.     It  should  not  swerve  us 
From  a  purpose  true  and  brave  ; 

Dearer  Freedom's  rugged  service 
Than  the  pastime  of  the  slave ; 


LINES.  191 

Better  is  the   storm  above  it  than  the  quiet  of  the 
grave. 

Let  us  then,  uniting,  bury 

All  our  idle  feuds  in  dust, 
And  to  future  conflicts  carry 

Mutual  faith  and  common  trust ; 
Always  he  who  most  forgiveth  in  his  brother  is  most 
just. 

From  the  eternal  shadow  rounding 

All  our  sun  and  starlight  here, 
Voices  of  our  lost  ones  sounding 

Bad  us  be  of  heart  and  cheer, 

Through  the  silence,  down  the  spaces,  falling  on  the 
inward  ear. 

Know  we  not  our  dead  are  looking 

Downward  with  a  sad  surprise, 
All  our  strife  of  words  rebuking 

With  their  mild  and  loving  eyes  ? 
Shall  we  grieve  the  holy  angels  ?     Shall  we  cloud  their 
blessed  skies  ? 

Let  us  draw  their  mantles  o'er  us 
Which  have  fallen  in  our  way ; 
Let  us  do  the  work  before  us, 

Cheerly,  bravely,  while  we  may, 
Ere  the  long  night-silence  cometh,  and  with  us  it  is 

no*  dayr 
1845. 


1 92 


VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 


LINES 
FROM  A  LETTER  TO  A  YOUNG  CLERICAL  FRIEND, 

A  STRENGTH  Thy  service  cannot  tire  — 
A  faith  which  doubt  can  never  dim  — 

A  heart  of  love,  a  lip  of  fire  — 

Oh  !  Freedom's  God  !  be  Thou  to  him! 

Speak  through  him  words  of  power  and  fear, 
As  through  Thy  prophet  bards  of  old, 

And  let  a  scornful  people  hear 

Once  more  Thy  Sinai-thunders  rolled. 

For  lying  lips  Thy  blessing  seek, 
And  hands  of  blood  are  raised  to  Thee, 

And  on  Thy  children,  crushed  and  weak, 
The  oppressor  plants  his  kneeling  knee* 

Let  then,  oh,  God!  Thy  servant  dare 
Thy  truth  in  all  its  power  to  tell, 

Unmask  the  priestly  thieves,  and  tear 
The  Bible  from  the  grasp  of  hell! 

From  hollow  rite  and  narrow  span 
Of  law  and  sect  by  Thee  released, 

Oh!  teach  him  that  the  Christian  man 
Is  holier  than  the  Jewish  priest. 


YORKTOWN.  193 

Chase  back  the  shadows,  gray  and  old, 

Of  the  dead  ages  from  his  way, 
And  let  his  hopeful  eyes  behold 

The  dawn  of  Thy  millennial  day;  — 

That  day  when  fettered  limb  and  mind 
Shall  know  the  truth  which  maketh  free, 

And  ho  alone  who  loves  his  kind 

Shall,  child-like,  claim  the  love  of  Thee! 


1846. 


YORKTOWN. 


[DR.  THATCHER,  surgeon  in  SCAMMEL'S  regiment,  in  his 
description  of  the  siege  of  Yorktown,  says  :  "  The  labor  on  the 
Virginia  plantations  is  performed  altogether  by  a  species  of 
the  human  race  cruelly  wrested  from  their  native  country,  and 
doomed  to  perpetual  bondage,  while  their  masters  are  man 
fully  contending  for  freedom  and  the  natural  rights  of  man. 
Such  is  the  inconsistency  of  human  nature."  Eighteen  hun 
dred  slaves  were  found  at  Yorktown,  after  its  surrender,  and 
restored  to  their  masters.  Well  was  it  said  by  DR.  BARNES, 
in  his  late  work  on  Slavery  :  "  No  slave  was  any  nearer  his  free 
dom  after  the  surrender  of  Yorktown,  than  when  PATRICK 
HENRY  first  taught  the  notes  of  liberty  to  echo  among  the 
hills  and  vales  of  Virginia."] 

FROM  Yorktown's  ruins,  ranked  and  still, 
Two  lines  stretch  far  o'er  vale  and  hill : 
Who  curbs  his  steed  at  head  of  one? 
Hark!  the  low  murmur  :  Washington! 
Who  bends  his  keen,  approving  glance 
Where  down  the  gorgeous  line  of  France 


194  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

Shine  knightly  star  and  plume  of  snow? 
Thou  too  art  victor,  Rochambeau ! 

The  earth  which  bears  this  calm  array 
Shook  with  the  war-charge  yesterday, 
Ploughed  deep  with  hurrying  hoof  and  wheel. 
Shot-sown  and  bladed  thick  with  steel ; 
October's  clear  and  noonday  sun 
Paled  in  the  breath-smoke  of  the  gun, 
And  down  night's  double  blackness  fell, 
Like  a  dropped  star,  the  blazing  shell. 

Now  all  is  hushed  :  the  gleaming  lines 
Stand  moveless  as  the  neighboring  pines ; 
While  through  them,  sullen,  grim,  and  slow. 
The  conquered  hosts  of  England  go  : 
O'Hara's  brow  belies  his  dress, 
Gay  Tarlton's  troop  ride  bannerless  : 
Shout,  from  thy  fired  and  wasted  homes, 
Thy  scourge,  Virginia,  captive  comes! 

Nor  thou  alone :  with  one  glad  voice 
Let  all  thy  sister  States  rejoice ; 
Let  Freedom,  in  whatever  clime 
She  waits  with  sleepless  eye  her  time, 
Shouting  from  cave  and  mountain  wood, 
Make  glad  her  desert  solitude, 
While  they  who  hunt  her  quail  with  fear : 
The  New  World's  chain  lies  broken  here! 

But  who  are  they,  who,  cowering,  wait 
Within  the  shattered  fortress  gate? 


YORK  TOWN.  195 

Dark  tillers  of  Virginia's  soil, 
Classed  with  the  battle's  common  spoil, 
With  household  stuffs,  and  fowl,  and  swine, 
With  Indian  weed  and  planters'  wine. 
With  stolen  beeves,  and  foraged  corn  — 
Are  they  not  men,  Virginian  born  ? 

Oh!  veil  your  faces,  young  and  brave! 
Sleep,  Scammel,  in  thy  soldier  grave! 
Sons  of  the  North-land,  ye  who  set 
Stout  hearts  against  the  bayonet, 
And  pressed  with  steady  footfall  near 
The  moated  battery's  blazing  tier, 
Turn  your  scarred  faces  from  the  sight, 
Let  shame  do  homage  to  the  right! 

Lo!  threescore  years  have  passed  ;  and  where 
The  Gallic  timbrel  stirred  the  air, 
With  Northern  drum-roll,  and  the  clear, 
Wild  horn-blow  of  the  mountaineer, 
While  Britain  grounded  on  that  plain 
The  arms  she  might  not  lift  again, 
As  abject  as  in  that  old  day 
The  slave  still  toils  his  life  away. 

Oh!  fields  still  green  and  fresh  in  story, 

Old  days  of  pride,  old  names  of  glory, 

Old  marvels  of  the  tongue  and  pen, 

Old  thoughts  which  stirred  the  hearts  of  men, 

Ye  spared  the  wrong ;  and  over  all 

Behold  the  avenging  shadow  fall ! 

Your  world-wide  honor  stained  with  shame  — 

Your  freedom's  self  a  hollow  name! 


ig6  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

Where's  now  the  flag  of  that  old  war? 

Where  flows  its  stripe?     Where  burns  its  star? 

Bear  witness,  Palo  Alto's  day, 

Dark  Vale  of  Palms,  red  Monterey, 

Where  Mexic  Freedom,  young  and  weak, 

Fleshes  the  Northern  eagle's  beak  : 

Symbol  of  terror  and  despair, 

Of  chains  and  slaves,  go  seek  it  there! 

Laugh,  Prussia,  midst  thy  iron  ranks ! 
Laugh,  Russia,  from  thy  Neva's  banks! 
Brave  sport  to  see  the  fledgling  born 
Of  Freedom  by  its  parent  torn ! 
Safe  now  is  Spielberg's  dungeon  cell, 
Safe  drear  Siberia's  frozen  hell : 
With  Slavery's  flag  o'er  both  unrolled, 
What  of  the  New  World  fears  the  Old? 

1847. 


EGO. 

WRITTEN  IN  THE  BOOK  OF  A  FRIEND. 

ON  page  of  thine  I  cannot  trace 

The  cold  and  heartless  common-place  — • 

A  statue's  fixed  and  marble  grace. 

For  ever  as  these  lines  are  penned, 
Still  with  the  thought  of  thee  will  blend 
That  of  some  loved  and  common  friend  — 


F.GO.  IQ7 

Who  in  life's  desert  track  has  made 
His  pilgrim  tent  with  mine,  or  strayed 
Beneath  the  same  remembered  shade. 

And  hence  my  pen  unfettered  moves 
In  freedom  which  the  heart  approves  — 
The  negligence  which  friendship  loves. 

And  wilt  thou  prize  my  poor  gift  less 

For  simple  air  and  rustic  dress. 

And  sign  of  haste  and  carelessness  ?  — 

Oh!  more  than  specious  counterfeit 

Of  sentiment,  or  studied  wit, 

A  heart  like  thine  should  value  it. 

Yet  half  I  fear 'my  gift  will  be 
Unto  thy  book,  if  not  to  thee, 
Of  more  than  doubtfu/  courtesy. 

A  banished  name  from  Fashion's  sphere, 

A  lay  unheard  of  Beauty's  ear. 

Forbid,  disowned,  —  what  do  they  here?  — 

Upon  my  ear  not  all  in  vain 

Came  the  sad  captive's  clanking  chain  — 

The  groaning  from  his  bed  of  pain. 

And  sadder  still,  I  saw  the  woe 

Which  only  wounded  spirits  know 

When  Pride's  strong  footsteps  o'er  them  go. 


198  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

Spurned  not  alone  in  walks  abroad, 
But  from  the  "  temples  of  the  Lord  " 
Thrust  out  apart,  like  things  abhorred. 

Deep  as  I  felt,  and  stern  and  strong, 

In  words  which  Prudence  smothered  long, 

My  soul  spoke  out  against  the  wrong ; 

Not  mine  alone  the  task  to  speak 
Of  comfort  to  the  poor  and  weak, 
And  dry  the  tear  on  Sorrow's  cheek ; 

But,  mingled  in  the  conflict  warm, 
To  pour  the  fiery  breath  of  storm 
Through  the  harsh  trumpet  of  Reform ; 

To  brave  Opinion's  settled  frown, 
From  ermined  robe  and  saintly  gown, 
While  wrestling  reverenced  Error  down. 

Founts  gushed  beside  my  pilgrim  way, 
Cool  shadows  on  the  green  sward  lay. 
Flowers  swung  upon  the  bending  spray. 

And,  broad  and  bright,  on  either  hand, 
Stretched  the  green  slopes  of  Fairy  land. 
With  Hope's  eternal  sunbow  spanned ; 

Whence  voices  called  me  like  the  flow, 
Which  on  the  listener's  ear  will  grow, 
Of  forest  streamlets  soft  and  low. 


199 


And  gentle  eyes,  which  still  retain 
Their  picture  on  the  heart  and  brain, 
Smiled,  beckoning  from  that  path  of  pain. 

In  vain!  —  nor  dream,  nor  rest,  nor  pause 
Remain  for  him  who  round  him  draws 
The  battered  mail  of  Freedom's  cause. 

From  youthful  hopes  —  from  each  green  spot 
Of  young  Romance,  and  gentle  Thought, 
Where  storm  and  tumult  enter  not  — 

From  each  fair  altar,  where  belong 
The  offerings  Love  requires  of  Song 
In  homage  to  her  bright-eyed  throng  — 

With  soul  and  strength,  with  heart  and  hand, 
I  turned  to  Freedom's  struggling  band  — 
To  the  sad  Helots  of  our  land. 

What  marvel  then  that  Fame  should  turn 
Her  notes  of  praise  to  those  of  scorn  — 
Her  gifts  reclaimed  —  her  smiles  withdrawn  ? 

What  matters  it!  —  a  few  years  more, 
Life's  surge  so  restless  heretofore 
Shall  break  upon  the  unknown  shore! 

In  that  far  land  shall  disappear 

The  shadows  which  we  follow  here  — 

The  mist-wreaths  of  our  atmosphere! 


200  VOICES    OF  FREEDOM. 

Before  no  work  of  mortal  hand, 
Of  human  will  or  strength  expand 
The  pearl  gates  of  the  Better  Land  ; 

Alone  in  that  great  love  which  gave 
Life  to  the  sleeper  of  the  grave, 
Resteth  the  power  to  "  seek  and  save." 

Yet,  if  the  spirit  gazing  through 

The  vista  of  the  past  can  view 

One  deed  to  Heaven  and  virtue  true  — - 


If  through  the  wreck  of  wasted  powers, 
Of  garlands  wreathed  from  Folly's  bowers; 
Of  idle  aims  and  misspent  hours  — 

The  eye  can  note  one  sacred  spot 
By  Pride  and  Self  profaned  not  — 
A  green  place  in  the  waste  of  thought  — 

Where  deed  or  word  has  rendered  less 
"  The  sum  of  human  wretchedness,1' 
And  Gratitude  looks  forth  to  bless  — 

The  simple  burst  of  tenderest  feeling 
From  sad  hearts  worn  by  evil-dealing, 
For  blessing  on  the  hand  of  healing,  — 

Better  than  Glory's  pomp  will  be 
That  green  and  blessed  spot  to  me  — 
A  palm-shade  in  Eternity!  — 


EGO.  201 

Something  of  Time  which  may  invite 
The  purified  and  spiritual  sight 
To  rest  on  with  a  calm  delight. 

And  when  the  summer  winds  shall  sweep 
With  their  light  wings  my  place  of  sleep. 
And  mosses  round  my  head-stone  creep  — 

If  still,  as  Freedom's  rallying  sign, 
Upon  the  young  heart's  altars  shine 
The  very  fires  they  caught  from  mine  — 

If  words  my  lips  once  uttered  still, 
In  the  calm  faith  and  steadfast  will 
Of  other  hearts,  their  work  fulfil  — 

Perchance  with  joy  the  soul  may  learn 
These  tokens,  and  its  eye  discern 
The  fires  which  on  those  altars  burn  — 

A  marvellous  joy  that  even  then, 

The  spirit  hath  its  life  again, 

In  the  strong  hearts  of  mortal  men. 

Take,  lady,  then,  the  gift  I  bring, 

No  gay  and  graceful  offering  — 

No  flower-smile  of  the  laughing  spring. 

Midst  the  green  buds  of  Youth's  fresh  May, 
With  Fancy's  leaf-emvoven  hay, 
My  sad  and  sombre  gift  I  lay. 


202  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

And  if  it  deepens  in  thy  mind 

A  sense  of  suffering  human  kind  — 

The  outcast  and  the  spirit-blind : 

Oppressed  and  spoiled  on  every  side, 
By  Prejudice,  and  Scorn,  and  Pride, 
Life's  common  courtesies  denied  ; 

Sad  mothers  mourning  o'er  their  trust, 
Children  by  want  and  misery  nursed, 
Tasting  life's  bitter  cup  at  first ; 

If  to  their  strong  appeals  which  come 
From  the  fireless  hearth,  and  crowded  room, 
And  the  close  alley's  noisome  gloom  — 

Though  dark  the  hands  upraised  to  thee 

In  mute  beseeching  agony, 

Thou  lend'st  thy  woman's  sympathy  — 

Not  vainly  on  thy  gentle  shrine, 

Where  Love,  and  Mirth,  and  Friendship  twine 

Their  varied  gifts,  I  offer  mine. 

1843- 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE    FROST    SPIRIT. 

HE   comes — he   comes  —  the   Frost    Spirit   comes! 

You  may  trace  his  footsteps  now 
On  the  naked  woods  and  the  blasted  fields  and  the 

brown  hill's  withered  brow. 
He  has   smitten    the   leaves    of  the   gray   old   trees 

where  their  pleasant  green  came  forth, 
And  the  winds,  which  follow  wherever  he  goes,  have 

shaken  them  down  to  earth. 

He  comes  —  he  comes  —  the  Frost  Spirit  comes!  — 

from  the  frozen  Labrador  — 
From  the  icy  bridge  of  the  Northern  seas,  which  the 

white  bear  wanders  o'er  — 
Where  the  fisherman's  sail  is  stiff  with   ice,  and  the 

luckless  forms  below 
In  the  sunless  cold  of  the  lingering  night  into  marble 

statues  grow! 

He  comes — he  comes  —  the  Frost  Spirit  comes!  — 

on  the  rushing  Northern  blast, 
And  the  dark  Norwegian  pines  have  bowed  as  his 

fearful  breath  went  past. 
203 


204  M ISC  ELLA  NE  O  US. 

With  an  unscorched  wing  he  has  hurried  on,  where 

the  fires  of  Hecla  glow 
On  the  darkly  beautiful  sky  above  and  the  ancient  ice 

below. 

He  comes  —  he  comes — the  Frost  Spirit  comes!  — 
and  the  quiet  lake  shall  feel 

The  torpid  touch  of  his  glazing  breath,  and  ring  to 
the  skater's  heel ; 

And  the  streams  which  danced  on  the  broken  rocks, 
or  sang  to  the  leaning  grass, 

Shall  bow  again  to  their  winter  chain,  and  in  mourn 
ful  silence  pass. 

He  comes  —  he  comes — the  Frost  Spirit  comes!  — 
let  us  meet  him  as  we  may, 

And  turn  with  the  light  of  the  parlor-fire  his  evil 
power  away ; 

And  gather  closer  the  circle  round,  when  that  fire 
light  dances  high, 

And  laugh  at  the  shriek  of  the  baffled  Fiend  as  his 
sounding  wing  goes  by! 

1830. 


THE   VAUDOIS   TEACHER. 

["  The  manner  in  which  the  WALDENF.SES  and  heretics  dis 
seminated  their  principles  among  the  CATHOLIC  gentry,  was 
by  carrying  with  them  a  box  of  trinkets,  or  articles  of  dress. 
Having  entered  the  houses  of  the  gentry,  and  disposed  of  some 
of  their  goods,  they  cautiously  intimated  that  they  had  com- 


THE    VAUDO/S    TEACHER.  205 

mo<litics  tar  more  valuable  than  these  —  inestimable  jewels, 
which  they  would  show  if  they  could  be  protected  from  the 
clergy.  They  would  then  give  their  purchasers  a  bible  or 
testament;  and  thereby  many  were  deluded  into  heresy."  — 
A'.  Sa 


"On,  lady  fair,  these  silks  of  mine  are  beautiful  and 

rare  — 
The  richest  web  of  the  Indian   loom,  which  beauty's 

queen  might  wear: 
And  my  pearls  are  pure  as  thine  own   fair  neck,  with 

whose  radiant  light  they  vie; 
I  have  brought  them  with  me  a  weary  way,  —  will  my 

gentle  lady  buy?  " 

And  the  lady  smiled  on  the  worn   old   man  through 

the  dark  and  clustering  curls, 
Which  veiled  her  brow  as  she  bent  to  view  his  silks 

and  glittering  pearls ; 
And  she  placed  their  price  in  the  old  man's  hand,  and 

lightly  turned  away, 
But  she   paused   at   the   wanderer's    earnest   call  — 

"My  gentle  lady,  stay!" 

"  Oh,  lady  fair,  I  have  yet  a  gem  which  a  purer  lustre 

flings. 
Than  the  diamond  flash  of  the  jewelled  crown  on  the 

lofty  brow  of  kings  — 
A  wonderful  pearl  of  exceeding  price,  whose  virtue 

shall  not  decay, 
Whose  light  shall  be  as  a  spell  to  thee  and  a  blessing 

on  thy  way!  " 


206  MISCELLANE  0  US. 

The  lady  glanced  at  the  mirroring  steel  where  her 

form  of  grace  was  seen, 
Where  her  eye  shone  clear,  and  her  dark  locks  waved 

their  clasping  pearls  between  ;  — 
"  Bring   forth    thy   pearl  of  exceeding    worth,   thou 

traveller  gray  and  old  — 
And  name  the  price   of  thy  precious  gem,  and   my 

page  shall  count  thy  gold." 

The  cloud  went  off  from  the   pilgrim's   brow,  as  a 

small  and  meagre  book, 
Unchased  with  gold  or  gem  of  cost,  from  his  folding 

robe  he  took! 
••  Here,  lady  fair,  is  the  pearl  of  price,  may  it  prove  as 

such  to  thee! 
Nay  —  keep  thy  gold —  I  ask  it  not,  for  the  word  of 

God  is  free! " 

The  hoary  traveller  went  his  way,  but  the  gift  he  left 
behind 

Hath  had  its  pure  and  perfect  work  on  that  high-born 
maiden's  mind. 

And  she  hath  turned  from  the  pride  of  sin  to  the  low 
liness  of  truth. 

And  given  her  human  heart  to  God  in  its  beautiful 
hour  of  youth! 

And  she  hath  left  the  gray  old  halls,  where  an  evil 

faith  had  power, 
The  courtly  knights  of  her   father's   train,  and   the 

maidens  of  her  power ; 


THE    CALL    OF   THE    CUR  1ST  I  AX.       2O/ 

And  she  hath  gone  to  the  Vaudois  vales  by  lordly 

feet  untrod, 
Where  the  poor  and  needy  of  earth  are  rich  in  the 

perfect  love  of  God! 

1830. 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    CHRISTIAN. 

NOT  always  as  the  whirlwind's  rush 

On  Horeb's  mount  of  fear, 
Not  always  as  the  burning  bush 

To  Alidian-s  shepherd  seer. 
Nor  as  the  awful  voice  which  came 

To  Israel's  prophet  bards, 
Nor  as  the  tongues  of  cloven  flame, 

Nor  gift  of  fearful  words  — 

Not  always  thus,  with  outward  sign 

Of  fire  or  voice  from  Heaven, 
The  message  of  a  truth  divine, 

The  call  of  God  is  given ! 
Awaking  in  the  human  heart 

Love  for  the  true  and  right  — 
Zeal  for  the  Christian's  "  better  part," 

Strength  for  the  Christian's  fight. 

Nor  unto  manhood's  heart  alone 

The  holy  influence  steals  : 
Warm  with  a  rapture  not  its  own, 

The  heart  of  woman  feels! 


208  MISCELLANE  O  US. 

As  she  who  by  Samaria's  wall 
The  Saviour's  errand  sought  — 

As  those  who  with  the  fervent  Paul 
And  meek  Aquila  wrought : 

Or  those  meek  ones  whose  martydom 

Rome's  gathered  grandeur  saw  : 
Or  those  who  in  their  Alpine  home 

Braved  the  Crusader's  war. 
When  the  green  Vaudois,  trembling,  heard, 

Through  all  its  vales  of  death, 
The  martyr's  song  of  triumph  poured 

From  woman's  failing  breath. 

And  gently,  by  a  thousand  things 

Which  o'er  our  spirits  pass, 
Like  breezes  o'er  the  harp's  fine  strings, 

Or  vapors  o'er  a  glass, 
Leaving  their  token  strange  and  new 

Of  music  or  of  shade, 
The  summons  to  the  right  and  true 

And  merciful  is  made. 


Oh,  then,  if  gleams  of  truth  and  light 

Flash  o'er  thy  waiting  mind, 
Unfolding  to  thy  mental  sight 

The  wants  of  human  kind  ; 
If  brooding  over  human  grief, 

The  earnest  wish  is  known 
To  soothe  and  gladden  with  relief 

An  anguish  not  thine  own : 


.}fV  SOUL   AND   I.  209 

Though  heralded  with  naught  of  fear, 

Or  outward  sign,  or  show  : 
Though  only  to  the  inward  ear 

It  whispers  soft  and  low  ; 
Though  dropping,  as  the  manna  fell, 

Unseen,  yet  from  above, 
Noiseless  as  dew-fall,  heed  it  well  — 

Thy  Father's  call  of  love! 


I333- 


MY   SOUL   AND   I. 


STAND  still,  my  soul,  in  the  silent  dark 

I  would  question  thee, 
Alone  in  the  shadow  drear  and  stark 

With  God  and  me ! 

What,  my  soul,  was  thy  errand  here? 

Was  it  mirth  or  ease, 
Or  heaping  up  dust  from  year  to  year? 

"Nay,  none  of  these!" 

Speak,  soul,  aright  in  His  holy  sight 

Whose  eye  looks  still 
And  steadily  on  thee  through  the  night : 

"To  do  His  will!" 

What  hast  thou  done,  oh  soul  of  mine 
That  thou  tremblest  so?  — 

Has  thou  wrought  His  task,  and  kept  the  line 
He  bade  thee  go? 


2  I O  M/SCELLANE  O  US. 

What,  silent  all  !  —  art  sad  of  cheer? 

Art  fearful  now? 
When  God  seemed  far  and  men  were  near 

How  brave  wert  thou? 

Aha!  thou  tremblest!  —  well  I  see 

Thovfrt  craven  grown. 
Is  it  so  hard  with  God  and  me 

To  stand  alone  ?  — 


Summon  thy  sunshine  bravery  back, 

Oh,  wretched  sprite! 
Let  me  hear  thy  voice  through  this  deep  and  black 

Abysmal  night. 

What  hast  thou  wrought  for  Right  and  Truth, 

For  God  and  Man, 
From  the  golden  hours  of  bright-eyed  youth 

To  life's  mid  span? 

Ah,  soul  of  mine,  thy  tones  I  hear, 

But  weak  and  low, 
Like  far  sad  murmurs  on  my  ear 

They  come  and  go. 

"  I  have  wrestled  stoutly  with  the  Wrong, 

And  borne  the  Right 
From  beneath  the  footfall  of  the  throng 

To  life  and  light. 


MY  SOUL    AND   /.  211 

;'  Wherever  Freedom  shivered  a  chain, 

God  speed,  quoth  I  : 
To  Error  amidst  her  shouting  train 

I  gave  the  lie." 

Ah,  soul  of  mine!  ah,  soul  of  mine! 

Thy  deeds  arc  well  : 
Were  they  wrought  for  Truth's  sake  or  for  thine? 

My  soul,  pray  tell. 

u  Of  all  the  work  my  hand  hath  wrought 

IVneath  the  sky. 
Save  a  place  in  kindly  human  thought, 

No  gain  have  I." 

Go  to,  go  to!  —  for  thy  very  self 

Thy  deeds  were  done  : 
Thou  for  fame,  the  miser  for  pelf 

Your  end  is  one! 

And  where  art  thou  going,  soul  of  mine  ? 

Canst  see  the  end  ? 
And  whither  this  troubled  life  of  thine 

Evermore  doth  tend? 


What  daunts  thee  now  ?  —  what  shakes  thee  so  ? 

My  sad  soul  say. 
"  I  see  a  cloud  like  a  curtain  low 

Hang  o'er  my  way. 


2  1 2  MIS C ELLA NE  0  US. 

"•  Whither  I  go  I  cannot  tell : 

That  cloud  hangs  black, 

High  as  the  heaven  and  deep  as  hell, 
Across  my  track. 

"  I  see  its  shadow  coldly  enwrap 

•The  souls  before. 
Sadly  they  enter  it,  step  by  step, 
To  return  no  more. 


"They  shrink,  they  shudder,  dear  God!  they  knee\ 

To  Thee  in  prayer. 
They  shut  their  eyes  on  the  cloud,  but  feel 

That  it  still  is  there. 


"  In  vain  they  turn  from  the  dread  Before 

To  the  Known  and  Gone ; 
For  while  gazing  behind  them  evermore 
•    Their  feet  glide  on. 


"  Yet,  at  times,  I  see  upon  sweet  pale  faces 

A  light  begin 
To  tremble,  as  if  from  holy  places 

And  shrines  within. 


"  And  at  times  methinks  their  cold  lips  move 

With  hymn  and  prayer, 
As  if  somewhat  of  awe,  but  more  of  love 

And  hope  were  there. 


MY  SOUL   AXD   L  21 

"  I  call  on  the  souls  who  have  left  the  light 

To  reveal  their  lot ; 
I  bend  my  ear  to  that  wall  of  night, 

And  they  answer  not. 


"  But  I  hear  around  me  sighs  of  pain 

And  the  cry  of  fear, 
And  a  sound  like  the  slow  sad  dropping  of  rain, 

Kuch  drop  a  tear! 


"Ah,  the  cloud  is  dark,  and  day  by  day, 
I  am  moving  thither : 

I  must  pass  beneath  it  on  my  way  - 
God  pity  me!  —  WHITHER?" 

Ah  soul  of  mine!  so  brave  and  wise 
In  the  life-storm  loud, 

Fronting  so  calmly  all  human  eyes 
In  the  sun-lit  crowd! 


Now  standing  apart  with  God  and  me 
Thou  art  weakness  all, 

Gazing  vainly  after  the  things  to  be 
Through  Death's  dread  wall. 

But  never  for  this,  never  for  this 
\Vas  thy  being  lent; 

For  the  craven's  fear  is  but  selfishness, 
Like  his  merriment. 


2  1 4  MISCELLANE  O  US. 

Folly  and  Fear  are  sisters  twain : 
One  closing  her  eyes, 

The  other  peopling  the  dark  inane 
With  spectral  lies. 

Know  well,  my  soul,  God's  hand  controls 
Whatever  thou  fearest ; 

Round  Him  in  calmest  music  rolls 
Whatever  thou  nearest. 


What  to  thee  is  shadow,  to  Him  is  day, 
And  the  end  He  knoweth, 

And  not  on  a  blind  and  aimless  way 
The  spirit  goeth. 


Man  sees  no  future  —  a  phantom  show 

Is  alone  before  him  ; 
Past  Time  is  dead,  and  the  grasses  grow, 

And  flowers  bloom  o'er  him. 


Nothing  before,  nothing  behind  : 
The  steps  of  Faith 

Fall  on  the  seeming  void,  and  find 
The  rock  beneath. 


The  Present,  the  Present  is  all  thou  hast 
For  thy  sure  possessing ; 

Like  the  patriarch's  angel  hold  it  fast 
Till  it  gives  its  blessing. 


MY  SOUL   .L\/>  L  215 

Why  fear  the  night?  why  sin  ink  from  Death, 

That  phantom  wan  ? 
There  is  nothing  in  Heaven  or  earth  beneath 

Save  God  and  man. 


Peopling  the  shadows  we  turn  from  Him 
And  from  one  another ; 

All  is  spectral  and  vague  and  dim 

Save  God  and  our  brother! 


Like  warp  and  woof  all  destinies 

Are  woven  fast, 
Linked  in  sympathy  like  the  keys 

Of  an  organ  vast. 

Pluck  one  thread,  and  the  web  ye  mar ; 

Break  but  one 
Of  a  thousand  keys,  and  the  paining  jar 

Through  all  will  run. 

Oh,  restless  spirit !   wherefore  strain 
Beyond  thy  sphere  ?  — 

Heaven  and  hell,  with  their  joy  and  pain 
Are  now  and  here. 


Back  to  thyself  is  measured  well 

All  thou  hast  given  ; 
Thy  neighbor's  wrong  is  thy  present  hell, 

His  bliss  thy  heaven. 


2  1 6  M ISC  ELL  ANE  O  US. 

And  in  life,  in  death,  in  dark  and  light 

All  are  in  God's  care  ; 
Sound  the  black  abyss,  pierce  the  deep  of  night, 

And  He  is  there! 

All  which  is  real  now  remaineth, 

And  fadeth  never : 
The  hand  which  upholds  it  now,  sustaineth 

The  soul  forever. 

Leaning  on  Him,  make  with  reverent  meekness 

His  own  thy  will, 
And  with  strength  from  Him  shall  thy  utter  weakness 

Life's  task  fulfil ; 

And  that  cloud  itself,  which  now  before  thee 

Lies  dark  in  view, 
Shall  with  beams  of  light  from  the  inner  glory 

Be  stricken  through. 

And  like  meadow  mist  through  Autumn's  dawn 

Uprolling  thin, 
Its  thickest  folds  when  about  thee  drawn 

Let  sunlight  in. 

Then  of  what  is  to  be,  and  of  what  is  done 

Why  queriest  thou?  — 
The  past  and  the  time  to  be  are  one, 

And  both  are  NOW! 

1847- 


TO  A   FXIEND.  21? 

TO   A   FRIEND, 
ON  HKR  RETURN  FROM  EUROPE. 

How  smiled  the  land  of  France 
Under  thy  blue  eye's  glance, 

Light-hearted  rover! 
Old  walls  of  chateaux  gray, 
Towers  of  an  early  day, 
Which  the  Three  Colors  play 

Flauntingly  over. 

Now  midst  the  brilliant  train 
Thronging  the  banks  of  Seine  : 

Now  midst  the  splendor 
Of  the  wild  Alpine  range, 
Waking  with  change  on  change 
Thoughts  in  thy  young  heart  strange, 

Lovely,  and  tender. 

Vales,  soft  Elysian, 
Like  those  in  the  vision 

Of  Mirza,  when,  dreaming, 
He  saw  the  long  hollow  dell, 
Touched  by  the  prophet's  spell, 
Into  an  ocean  swell 

With  its  isles  teeming. 

Cliffs  wrapped  in  snows  of  years, 
Splintering  with  icy  spears 
Autumn's  blue  heaven : 


2 1 8  MISCELLANE  O  US. 

Loose  rock  and  frozen  slide, 
Hung  on  the  mountain  side, 
Waiting  their  hour  to  glide 
Downward,  storm-driven! 

Rhine  stream,  by  castle  old, 
Baron's  and  robber's  hold, 

Peacefully  flowing ; 
Sweeping  through  vineyards  green 
Or  where  the  cliffs  are  seen 
O'er  the  broad  wave  between 

Grim  shadows  throwing. 

Or  where  St.  Peter's  dome 
Swells  o'er  eternal  Rome, 

Vast,  dim,  and  solemn,  — 
Hymns  ever  chanting  low  — 
Censers  swung  to  and  fro  — 
Sable  stoles  sweeping  slow 

Cornice  and  column! 

Oh,  as  from  each  and  all 
Will  there  not  voices  call 

Evermore  back  again? 
In  the  mind's  gallery 
Wilt  thou  not  always  see 
Dim  phantoms  beckon  thee 

O'er  that  old  track  again  ? 

New  forms  thy  presence  haunt  — 
New  voices  softly  chant  — 
New  faces  greet  thee!  — 


TO  A   FRIEND.  2 19 

Pilgrims  from  many  a  shrine 
Hallowed  by  poet's  line, 
At  memory's  magic  sign, 
Rising  to  meet  thee. 

And  when  such  visions  come 
Unto  thy  olden  home, 

Will  they  not  waken 
Deep  thoughts  of  Him  whose  hand 
Led  thee  o'er  sea  and  land 
Back  to  the  household  band 

Whence  tliou  wast  taken? 

While,  at  the  sunset  time, 
Swells  the  cathedral's  chime, 

Yet,  in  thy  dreaming, 
While  to  thy  spirit's  eye 
Yet  the  vast  mountains  lie 
Piled  in  the  Switzer's  sky, 

Icy  and  gleaming: 

Prompter  of  silent  prayer, 
Be  the  wild  picture  there 

In  the  mind's  chamber, 
And,  through  each  coming  day 
Him,  \vho,  as  staff  and  stay, 
Watched  o'er  thy  wandering  way, 

Freshly  remember. 

So,  when  the  call  shall  be 
Soon  or  late  unto  thee, 
As  to  all  given, 


22O  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Still  may  that  picture  live, 
All  its  fair  forms  survive, 
And  to  thy  spirit  give 
Gladness  in  Heaven  ! 

1841. 


TO  THE  REFORMERS  OF  ENGLAND.1 

GOD  bless  ye,  brothers  !  —  in  the  fight 
Ye're  waging  now,  ye  cannot  fail, 

For  better  is  your  sense  of  right 
Than  kingcraft's  triple  mail. 

Than  tyrant's  law,  or  bigot's  ban 
More  mighty  is  your  simplest  word  ; 

The  free  heart  of  an  honest  man 
Than  crosier  or  the  sword. 

Go  —  let  your  bloated  Church  rehearse 
The  lesson  it  has  learned  so  well ; 

It  moves  not  with  its  prayer  or  curse 
The  gates  of  Heaven  or  hell. 

Let  the  State  scaffold  rise  again  — 
Did  Freedom  die  when  Russell  died  ? 

Forget  ye  how  the  blood  of  Vane 
From  earth's  green  bosom  cried  ? 

1  It  can  scarcely  be  necessary  to  say  that  the  author  refers 
to  those  who  are  seeking  the  reform  of  political  evils  in  Great 
Britain  by  peaceful  and  Christian  means. 


TO    TIH:    A7-.7-V 'A'.J/A'A'.S1   OF  ENGLAND.     221 

The  great  hearts  of  your  olden  time 
Are  beating  with  you.  full  and  strong ; 

All  holy  memories  and  sublime 
And  glorious  round  ye  throng. 

The  blutl".  bold  men  of  Runnymede 
Are  \\ith  ye  still  in  times  like  these; 

The  shades  of  Kn^land's  mighty  dead, 
Your  cloud  of  witnesses! 


The  truths  ye  urge  are  borne  abroad 

By  every  wind  and  every  tide  ; 
The  voice  of  Nature  and  of  God 

Speaks  out  upon  your  side. 

The  weapons  which  your  hands  have  found 
Are  those  which  Heaven  itself  hath  wrought, 

Light,  Truth,  and  Love  ;  —  your  battle  ground 
The  free,  broad  field  of  Thought. 


No  partial,  selfish  purpose  breaks 
The  simple  beauty  of  your  plan, 

Nor  lie  from  throne  or  altar  shakes 
Your  steady  faith  in  man. 


The  languid  pulse  of  England  starts 

And  bounds  beneath  your  words  of  power ; 

The  beating  of  her  million  hearts 
Is  with  you  at  this  hour! 


222  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Oh,  ye  who,  with  undoubting  eyes, 

Through  present  cloud  and  gathering  storm, 

Behold  the  span  of  Freedom's  skies, 
And  sunshine  soft  and  warm,  — 

Press  bravely  onward !  —  not  in  vain 
Your  generous  trust  in  human  kind  ; 

The  good  which  bloodshed  could  not  gain 
Your  peaceful  zeal  shall  find. 

Press  on!  —  the  triumph  shall  be  won 
Of  common  rights  and  equal  laws, 

The  glorious  dream  of  Harrington, 
And  Sidney's  good  old  cause. 

Blessing  the  cotter  and  the  crown, 
Sweetening  worn  Labor's  bitter  cup  ; 

And,  plucking  not  the  highest  down, 
Lifting  the  lowest  up. 

Press  on !  —  and  we  who  may  not  share 

The  toil  or  glory  of  your  fight, 
May  ask,  at  least,  in  earnest  prayer, 

God's  blessing  on  the  right! 

1843- 


THE  QUAKER  OF  THE  OLDEN  TIME 

THE  Quaker  of  the  olden  time!  — 

How  calm  and  firm  and  true, 
Unspotted  by  its  wrong  and  crime, 

He  walked  the  dark  earth  through! 


THE    QC.4KEK    OF   THE    OLDEN   TIME.     22$ 

The  lust  of  power,  the  love  of  gain, 

The  thousand  lures  of  sin 
Around  him,  had  no  power  to  stain 

The  purity  within. 

With  that  deep  insight  which  detects 

All  great  things  in  the  small, 
And  knows  how  each  man's  life  affects 

The  spiritual  life  of  all, 
He  walked  by  faith  and  not  by  sight, 

By  love  and  not  by  law ; 
The  presence  of  the  wrong  or  right 

He  rather  felt  than  saw. 

He  felt  that  wrong  with  wrong  partakes, 

That  nothing  stands  alone, 
That  whoso  gives  the  motive,  makes 

His  brother's  sin  his  own. 
And,  pausing  not  for  doubtful  choice 

Of  evils  great  or  small, 
He  listened  to  that  inward  voice 

Which  called  away  from  all. 

Oh!  Spirit  of  that  early  day, 

So  pure  and  strong  and  true, 
Be  with  us  in  the  narrow  way 

Our  faithful  fathers  knew. 
Give  strength  the  evil  to  forsake, 

The  cross  of  Truth  to  bear, 
And  love  and  reverent  fear  to  make 

Our  daily  lives  a  prayer! 

1838. 


224  MISCELLANE  0  US. 


THE   REFORMER. 

ALL  grim  and  soiled  and  brown  with  tan? 

I  saw  a  Strong  One,  in  his  wrath, 
Smiting  the  godless  shrines  of  man 
Along  his  path. 

The  Church  beneath  her  trembling  dome 

Essayed  in  vain  her  ghostly  charm  : 
Wealth  shook  within  his  gilded  home 
With  strange  alarm. 

Fraud  from  his  secret  chambers  fled 

Before  the  sunlight  bursting  in  ; 
Sloth  drew  her  pillow  o'er  her  head 
To  drown  the  din. 

"  Spare,11  Art  implored,  "  yon  holy  pile ; 

That  grand,  old,  time-worn,  turret  spare  • 
Meek  Reverence,  kneeling  in  the  aisle, 
Cried  out,  "Forbear!  " 

Gray-bearded  Use,  who,  deaf  and  blind, 
Groped  for  his  old  accustomed  stone, 
Leaned  on  his  staff,  and  wept,  to  find 
His  seat  o^rthrown. 

Young  Romance  raised  his  dreamy  eyes, 

O'erhung  with  paly  locks  of  gold  : 
"  Why  smite,11  he  asked  in  sad  surprise, 
"The  fair,  the  old?11 


THE  REFORMER.  22$ 

Yet  louder  rang  the  Strong  One's  stroke, 

Yet  nearer  flashed  his  axe's  gleam  ; 
Shuddering  and  sick  at  heart  I  woke, 
As  from  a  dream. 


I  looked  :  aside  the  dust  cloud  rolled  -- 
The  Waster  seemed  the  Builder  too; 
Upsprittging  from  the  ruined  Old 
I  saw  the  New. 


'T  was  but  the  ruin  of  the  bad  — 

The  wasting  of  the  wrong  and  ill ; 
Whatever  of  good  the  old  time  had 
Was  living  still. 

Calm  grew  the  brows  of  him  I  feared ; 

The  frown  which  awed  me  passed  away, 
And  leit  behind  a  smile  which  cheered 
Like  breaking  day. 

The  grain  grew  green  on  battle-plains, 

O'er  swarded  war-mounds  grazed  the  cow 
The  slave  stood  forging  from  his  chains 
The  spade  and  plough. 


Where  frowned  the  fort,  pavilions  gay 

And  cottage  windows,  flower-entwined; 
Looked  out  upon  the  peaceful  bay 
And  hills  behind. 


226  MIS  CELL  A  NE  O  US. 

Through  vine-wreathed  cups  with  wine  once  red, 

The  lights  on  brimming  crystal  fell, 
Drawn,  sparkling,  from  the  rivulet  head 
And  mossy  well. 

Through  prison  walls,  like  Heaven-sent  hope, 
Fresh  breezes  blew,  and  sunbeams  strayed, 
And  with  the  idle  gallows-rope 
The  young  child  played. 

Where  the  doomed  victim  in  his  cell 
Had  counted  o'er  the  weary  hours, 
Glad  school-girls,  answering  to  the  bell, 
Came  crowned  with  flowers. 


Grown  wiser  for  the  lesson  given, 

I  fear  no  longer,  for  I  know 
That,  where  the  share  is  deepest  driven, 
The  best  fruits  grow. 


The  outworn  rite,  the  old  abuse, 

The  pious  fraud  transparent  grown, 
The  good  held  captive  in  the  use 
Of  wrong  alone  — 

These  wait  their  doom,  from  that  great  law 
Which  makes  the  past  time  serve  to-day ; 
And  fresher  life  the  world  shall  draw 
From  their  decay. 


/'//A    REFORMER.  22J 

Oh!  backward-looking  son  of  time!  — 

The  new  is  old,  the  old  is  new, 
The  cycle  of  a  change  sublime 
Still  sweeping  through. 

So  wisely  taught  the  Indian  seer; 

Destroying  Seva,  forming  Brahm, 
Who  wake  by  turns  Earth's  love  and  fear? 
Are  one,  the  same. 

As  idly  as,  in  that  old  day 

Thou  mournest,  did  thy  sires  repine, 
So,  in  his  time,  thy  child,  grown  gray, 
Shall  sigh  for  thine. 

Yet,  not  the  less  for  them  or  thou 

The  eternal  step  of  Progress  beats 
To  that  great  anthem,  calm  and  slow, 
Which  God  repeats! 

Take  heart !  —  the  Waster  builds  again  — 

A  charmed  life  old  goodness  hath  ; 
The  tares  may  perish  —  but  the  grain 
Is  not  for  death. 

God  works  in  all  things ;  all  obey 

His  first  propulsion  from  the  night : 
Ho,  wake  and  watch !  —  the  world  is  gray 
With  morning  light! 

1846. 


228  MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE   PRISONER    FOR   DEBT. 

LOOK  on  him! —  through  his  dungeon  grate 

Feebly  and  cold,  the  morning  light 
Comes  stealing  round  him,  dim  and  late, 

As  if  it  loathed  the  sight. 
Reclining  on  his  strawy  bed, 
His  hand  upholds  his  drooping  head  — 
His  bloodless  cheek  is  seamed  and  hard, 
Unshorn  his  gray,  neglected  beard  ; 
And  o'er  his  bony  fingers  flow 
His  long,  dishevelled  locks  of  snow. 

No  grateful  fire  before  him  glows, 
And  yet  the  winter's  breath  is  chill ; 

And  o'er  his  half-clad  person  goes 
The  frequent  ague  thrill! 

Silent,  save  ever  and  anon, 

A  sound,  half  murmur  and  half  groan, 

Forces  apart  the  painful  grip 

Of  the  old  sufferer's  bearded  lip  ; 

O  sad  and  crushing  is  the  fate 

Of  old  age  chained  and  desolate! 

Just  God !  why  lies  that  old  man  there  ? 

A  murderer  shares  his  prison  bed, 
Whose  eye-balls,  through  his  horrid  hair, 

Gleam  on  him,  fierce  and  red ; 
And  the  rude  oath  and  heartless  jeer 
Fall  ever  on  his  loathing  ear, 


THE   PKISONER  FOR  DEBT.  22Q 

And,  or  in  wakefulness  or  sleep, 
Nerve,  rlesh,  and  pulses  thrill  and  creep 
Whene'er  that  ruffian's  tossing  limb, 
Crimson  with  murder,  touches  him! 

What  has  the  gray-haired  prisoner  done? 

Has  murder  stained  his  hands  with  gore? 
Not  so  ;  his  crime's  a  fouler  one  ; 

GOD   MADE   THE  OLD   MAN   POOR! 

For  this  he  shares  a  felon's  cell  — 
The  fittest  earthly  type  of  hell! 
For  this,  the  boon  for  which  he  poured 
His  young  blood  on  the  invader's  sword, 
And  counted  light  the  fearful  cost  — 
His  blood-gained  liberty  is  lost! 

And  so,  for  such  a  place  of  rest, 

Old  prisoner,  dropped  thy  blood  as  rain 

On  Concord's  field,  and  Bunker's  crest, 
And  Saratoga's  plain? 

Look  forth,  thou  man  of  many  scars. 

Through  thy  dim  dungeon's  iron  bars ; 

It  must  be  joy,  in  sooth,  to  see 

Yon  monument  upreared  to  thee  — 

Piled  granite  and  a  prison  cell  — 

The  land  repays  thy  service  well ! 

Go,  ring  the  bells  and  fire  the  guns, 

And  fling  the  starry  banner  out ; 
Shout  "  Freedom !  "  till  your  lisping  ones 
'  Give  back  their  cradle-shout : 


230  MISCELLANE  O  US. 

Let  boastful  eloquence  declaim 
Of  honor,  liberty,  and  fame  ; 
Still  let  the  poet's  strain  be  heard,     . 
With  glory  for  each  second  word, 
And  everything  with  breath  agr?,e 
To  praise  "  our  glorious  libertj  ! " 

But  when  the  patriot  cannon  jars 
That  prison's  cold  and  gloomy  wall, 

And  through  its  grates  the  stripes  and  stars 
Rise  on  the  wind  and  fall  — 

Think  ye  that  prisoner's  aged  ear 

Rejoices  in  the  general  cheer? 

Think  ye  his  dim  and  failing  eye 

Is  kindled  at  your  pageantry? 

Sorrowing  of  soul,  and  chained  of  limb, 

What  is  your  carnival  to  him  ? 

Down  with  the  LAW  that  binds  him  thus! 

Unworthy  freemen,  let  it  find 
No  refuge  from  the  withering  curse 

Of  God  and  human  kind! 
Open  the  prison's  living  tomb, 
And  usher  from  its  brooding  gloom 
The  victims  of  your  savage  code, 
To  the  free  sun  and  air  of  God  ; 
No  longer  dare  as  crime  to  brand 
The  chastening  of  the  Almighty's  hand 
1847. 


LINES.  231 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON  READING  SEVKKAI.  I'AMIMM.KTS  PUBLISHED 
BY  CLERGYMEN  AGAINST  THE  ABOLITION  OF  THK 
GALLOWS. 

I. 

THE  suns  of  eighteen  centuries  have  shone 

Since  the  Redeemer  walked  with  man,  and  made 

The  fisher's  boat,  the  cavern's  floor  of  stone, 
And  mountain  moss,  a  pillow  for  his  head ; 

And  He,  who  wandered  with  the  peasant  Jew, 
And  broke  with  publicans  the  bread  of  shame, 
And  drank,  with  blessings  in  His  Father's  name, 

The  water  which  Samaria's  outcast  drew, 

Hath  now  His  temples  upon  every  shore, 

Altar  and  shrine  and  priest,  —  and  incense  dim 
Evermore  rising,  with  low  prayer  and  hymn, 

From  lips  which  press  the  temple's  marble  floor, 

Or  kiss  the  gilded  sign  of  the  dread  Cross  He  bore! 

n. 

Yet  as  of  old,  when,  meekly  "  doing  good," 
He  fed  a  blind  and  selfish  multitude, 
And  even  the  poor  companions  of  His  lot 
With  their  dim  earthly  vision  knew  Him  not, 

How  ill  are  His  high  teachings  understood! 
Where  He  hath  spoken  Liberty,  the  priest 

At  His  own  altar  binds  the  chain  anew ; 
Where  He  hath  bidden  to  Life's  equal  feast, 

The  starving  many  wait  upon  the  few ; 


232  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Where  He  hath  spoken  Peace,  His  name  hath  been 
The  loudest  war-cry  of  contending  men  ; 
Priests,  pale  with  vigils,  in  His  name  have  blessed 
The  unsheathed  sword,  and  laid  the  spear  in  rest, 
Wet  the  war-banner  with  their  sacred  wine, 
And  crossed  its  blazon  with  the  holy  sign ; 
Yea,  in  His  name  who  bade  the  erring  live, 
And  daily  taught  His  lesson  —  to  forgive!  — 

Twisted  the  cord  and  edged  the  murderous  steel ; 
And,  with  His  words  of  mercy  on  their  lips, 
Hung  gloating  o'er  the  pincers  burning  grips, 

And  the  grim  horror  of  the  straining  wheel ; 
Fed  the  slow  flame  which  gnawed  the  victim's  limb, 
Who  saw  before  his  searing  eye-balls  swim 

The  image  of  their  Christ,  in  cruel  zeal, 
Through  the  black  torment-smoke,  held  mockingly 
to  him! 

in. 

The  blood  which  mingled  with  the  desert  sand, 
And  beaded  with  its  red  and  ghastly  dew 

The  vines  and  olives  of  the  Holy  Land  — 
The  shrieking  curses  of  the  hunted  Jew  — 

The  white-sown  bones  of  heretics,  where'er 

They  sank  beneath  the  Crusade's  holy  spear  — 

Goa's  dark  dungeons  —  Malta's  sea-washed  cell, 
Where  with  the  hymns  the  ghostly  fathers  sung 
Mingled  the  groans  by  subtle  torture  wrung, 

Heaven's  anthem  blending  with  the  shriek  of  hell! 

The  midnight  of  Bartholomew  —  the  stake 
Of  Smithfield,  and  that  thrice-accursed  flame 

Which  Calvin  kindled  by  Geneva's  lake  — 


LINES.  233 

New  England's  scartuld,  and  the  priestly  sneer 
Which  mocked  its  victims  in  that  hour  ot"  tear. 

When  guilt  itself  a  human  tear  might  claim,— 
lli-.ir  witness,  O  Thou  wronged  and  merciful  One! 
That  Karth's  most  hateful  crimes  have  in  Thy  name 
been  done! 


Thank  God!  that  I  have  lived  to  see  the  time 
When  the  great  truth  begins  at  last  to  find 
An  utterance  from  the  deep  heart  of  mankind, 
Earnest  and  clear,  that  ALL   RKVKN<;K  is  CKI.MK! 
That  man  is  holier  than  a  creed,  —  that  all 

Restraint  upon  him  must  consult  his  good, 
Hope's  sunshine  linger  on  his  prison  wall, 

And  Love  look  in  upon  his  solitude. 
The  beautiful  lesson  which  our  Saviour  taught 
Through  long,  dark  centuries  its  way  hath  wrought 
Into  the  common  mind  and  popular  thought ; 
And  words,  to  which  by  Galilee's  lake  shore 
The  humble  fishers  listened  with  hushed  oar, 
Have  found  an  echo  in  the  general  heart, 
And  of  the  public  faith  become  a  living  part. 

v. 

Who  shall  arrest  this  tendency? —  Bring  back 
The  cells  of  Venice  and  the  bigot's  rack  ? 
Harden  the  softening  human  heart  again 
To  cold  indifference  to  a  brother's  pain? 
Ye  most  unhappy  men!  —  who,  turned  away, 
From  the  mild  sunshine  of  the  Gospel  day, 
Grope  in  the  shadows  of  Man's  twilight  time, 


234  MISCELLANEOUS. 

What  mean  ye,  that  with  ghoul-like  zest  ye  brood 
O'er  those  foul  altars  streaming  with  warm  blood? 

Permitted  in  another  age  and  clime  ? 
Why  cite  that  law  with  which  the  bigot  Jew 
Rebuked  the  Pagan's  mercy,  when  he  knew 
No  evil  in  the  Just  One?  —  Wherefore  turn 
To  the  dark  cruel  past  ?  —  Can  we  not  learn 
From  the  pure  Teacher's  life,  how  mildly  free 
Is  the  great  Gospel  of  Humanity? 
The  Flamen's  knife  is  bloodless,  and  no  more 
Mexitli's  altars  soak  with  human  gore, 
No  more  the  ghastly  sacrifices  smoke 
Through  the  green  arches  of  the  Druid's  oak ; 
And  ye  of  milder  faith,  with  your  high  claim 
Of  prophet-utterance  in  the  Holiest  name, 
Will  ye  become  the  Druids  of  our  time  ? 

Set  up  your  scaffold-altars  in  our  land, 
And,  consecrators  of  Law's  darkest  clime, 

Urge  to  its  loathsome  work  the  hangman's  hand? 
Beware  —  lest  human  nature,  roused  at  last, 
From  its  peeled  shoulder  your  encumbrance  cast, 

And,  sick  to  loathing  of  your  cry  for  blood, 
Rank  ye  with  those  who  led  their  victims  round 
The  Celt's  red  altar  and  the  Indian's  mound, 

Abhorred  of  Earth  and  Heaven  —  a  pagan  brother 
hood  ! 

1842. 


/•///•;    HUMAN  SACRIFICE.  235 


THE    HUMAN   SACRIFICE.1 


FAR  from  his  close  and  noisome  cell, 

By  grassy  lane  and  sunny  stream, 
Blown  clover  field  and  strawberry  dell, 
And  green  and  meadow  freshness,  fell 

The  footsteps  of  his  dream. 
Attain  from  careless  feet  the  dew 

Of  summer's  misty  morn  he  shook  ; 
Again  with  merry  heart  he  threw 

His  light  line  in  the  rippling  brook. 
Back  crowded  all  his  school-day  joys  — 

He  urged  the  ball  and  quoit  again, 
And  heard  the  shout  of  laughing  boys 

Come  ringing  down  the  walnut  glen. 
Again  he  felt  the  western  breeze, 

With  scent  of  flowers  and  crisping  hay; 
And  down  again  through  wind-stirred  trees 

He  saw  the  quivering  sunlight  play. 
An  angel  in  home's  vine-hung  door, 
He  saw  his  sister  smile  once  more  ; 
Once  more  the  truant's  brown-locked  head 
Upon  his  mother's  knee  was  laid, 
And  sweetly  lulled  to  slumber  there, 
With  evening's  holy  hymn  and  prayer. 

1  Some  of  the  leading  sectarian  papers  have  lately  published 
the  letter  of  a  clergyman,  giving  an  account  of  his  attendance 
upon  a  criminal  (who  had  committed  murder  during  a  fit  of  in 
toxication),  at  the  time  of  his  execution,  in  western  New  York. 


236  MISCELLANEOUS. 

II. 

He  woke.     At  once  on  heart  and  brain 
The  present  Terror  rushed  again  — 
Clanked  on  his  limbs  the  felon's  chain! 
He  woke,  to  hear  the  church-tower  tell 
Time's  foot-fall  on  the  conscious  bell, 
And,  shuddering,  feel  that  clanging  din 
His  life's  LAST  HOUR  had  ushered  in  ; 
To  see  within  his  prison  yard, 
Through  the  small  window,  iron-barred, 
The  gallows1  shadow  rising  dim 
Between  the  sunrise  heaven  and  him, — 
A  horror  in  God's  blessed  air  — 

A  blackness  in  His  morning  light  — 
Like  some  foul  devil-altar  there 

Built  up  by  demon  hands  at  night. 

And,  maddened  by  that  evil  sight, 
Dark,  horrible,  confused,  and  strange, 
A  chaos  of  wild,  weltering  change, 
All  power  of  check  and  guidance  gone, 
Dizzy  and  blind,  his  mind  swept  on. 
In  vain  he  strove  to  breathe  a  prayer, 

In  vain  he  turned  the  Holy  Book; 
He  only  heard  the  gallows-stair 

Creak  as  the  wind  its  timbers  shook. 


The  writer  describes  the  agony  of  the  wretched  being  —  his 
abortive  attempts  at  prayer  —  his  appeal  for  life  —  his  fear  of  a 
violent  death  ;  and,  after  declaring  his  belief  that  the  poor  vic 
tim  died  without  hope  of  salvation,  concludes  with  a  warm 
eulogy  upon  the  Gallows,  being  more  than  ever  convinced  of 
its  utility  by  the  awful  dread  and  horror  which  it  inspired. 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE.  237 

No  dream  for  him  of  sin  forgiven. 
While  still  that  baleful  spectre  stood, 

With  its  hour.se  murmur,  "  />'/<><></ for  blood ! '' 
Between  him  and  the  pitying  Heaven! 


Low  on  his  dungeon  floor  he  knelt, 

And  smote  his  breast,  and  on  his  chain, 
Whose  iron  clasp  he  always  felt, 

His  hot  tears  fell  like  rain  ; 
And  near  him,  with  the  cold,  calm  look 
And  tone  of  one  whose  formal  part, 
Unwarmed,  unsoftened  of  the  heart, 
Is  measured  out  by  rule  and  book, 
With  placid  lip  and  tranquil  blood, 
The  hangman's  ghostly  ally  stood, 
Blessing  with  solemn  text  and  word 
The  gallows-drop  and  strangling  cord  ; 
Lending  the  sacred  Gospel's  awe 
And  sanction  to  the  crime  of  Law. 

IV. 

He  saw  the  victim's  tortured  brow  — 

The  sweat  of  anguish  starting  there  — 
The  record  of  a  nameless  woe 
In  the  dim  eye's  imploring  stare, 
Seen  hideous  through  the  long,  damp  hair 
Fingers  of  ghastly  skin  and  bone 
Working  and  writhing  on  the  stone!  — 
And  heard,  by  mortal  terror  wrung 
From  heaving  breast  and  stiffened  tongue, 
The  choking  sob  and  low  hoarse  prayer; 


238  MISCELLANE  O  US. 

As  o'er  his  half-crazed  fancy  came 

A  vision  of  the  eternal  flame  — 

Its  smoking  cloud  of  agonies  — 

Its  demon-worm  that  never  dies  — 

The  everlasting  rise  and  fall 

Of  fire-waves  round  the  infernal  wall ; 

While  high  above  that  dark  red  flood, 

Black,  giant-like,  the  gallows  stood  : 

Two  busy  fiends  attending  there  ; 

One  with  cold  mocking  rite  and  prayer, 

The  other,  with  impatient  grasp, 

Tightening  the  death-rope's  strangling  clasp! 

v. 

The  unfelt  rite  at  length  was  done  — 

The  prayer  unheard  at  length  was  said  — 
An  hour  had  passed  :  —  the  noon-day  sun 

Smote  on  the  features  of  the  dead ! 
And  he  who  stood  the  doomed  beside, 
Calm  gauger  of  the  swelling  tide 
Of  mortal  agony  and  fear, 
Heeding  with  curious  eye  and  ear 
Whatever  revealed  the  keen  excess 
Of  man's  extremest  wretchedness  : 
And  who  in  that  dark  anguish  saw 

An  earnest  of  the  victim's  fate, 
The  vengeful  terrors  of  God's  law, 
The  kindlings  of  Eternal  hate  — 
The  first  drops  of  that  fiery  rain 
Which  beats  the  dark  red  realm  of  pain,  — 
Did  he  uplift  his  earnest  cries 

Against  the  crime  of  Law,  which  gave 
His  brother  to  that  fearful  grave, 


Till-,   ll I1  MAX  SACRIFICE.  239 

Whereon  Hope's  moonlight  never  lies, 
And  Faith's  white  blossoms  never  wave 

To  the  soft  breath  of  Memory's  sighs  ;  — 

Which  sent  a  spirit  marred  and  stained, 

llv  fiends  of  sin  possessed,  profaned, 

In  madness  and  in  blindness  stark. 

Into  the  silent,  unknown  dark? 

No  —  from  the  wild  and  shrinking  dread 

With  which  he  saw  the  victim  led 
Beneath  the  dark  veil  which  divides 

Ever  the  living  from  the  dead. 
And  Nature's  solemn  secret  hides, 

The  man  of  prayer  can  only  draw 

New  reasons  for  his  bloody  law  ; 

New  faith  in  staying  Murder's  hand 

By  murder  at  that  Law's  command ; 

New  reverence  for  the  gallows-rope, 

As  human  nature's  latest  hope  ; 

Last  relic  of  the  good  old  time, 

When  Power  found  license  for  its  crime, 

And  held  a  writhing  world  in  check 

By  that  fell  cord  about  its  neck ; 

Stifled  Sedition's  rising  shout, 

Choked  the  young  breath  "of  Freedom  out, 

And  timely  checked  the  words  which  sprung 

From  Heresy's  forbidden  tongue  ; 

While  in  its  noose  of  terror  bound, 

The  Church  its  cherished  union  found, 

Conforming,  on  the  Moslem  plan, 

The  motley-colored  mind  of  man, 

Not  by  the  Koran  and  the  Sword, 

But  bv  the  Bible  and  the  Cord! 


24O  MISCELLANEOUS. 

VI. 

Oh,  Thou!  at  whose  rebuke  the  grave 
Back  to  warm  life  its  sleeper  gave, 
Beneath  whose  sad  and  tearful  glance 
The  cold  and  changed  countenance 
Broke  the  still  horror  of  its  trance, 
And  waking,  saw  with  joy  above, 
A  brother's  face  of  tenderest  love  ; 
Thou,  unto  whom  the  blind  and  lame, 
The  sorrowing  and  the  sin-sick  came, 
And  from  thy  very  garment's  hem 
Drew  life  and  healing  unto  them, 
The  burden  of  Thy  holy  faith 
Was  love  and  life,  not  hate  and  death, 
Man's  demon-ministers  of  pain, 

The  fiends  of  his  revenge,  were  sent 

From  Thy  pure  Gospel's  element 
To  their  dark  home  again. 
Thy  name  is  Love!     What,  then,  is  he, 

Who  in  that  name  the  gallows  rears, 
An  awful  altar  built  to  Thee, 

With  sacrifice  of  blood  and  tears? 
Oh,  once  again  Thy  healing  lay 

On  the  blind  eyes  which  know  Thee  not ; 
And  let  the  light  of  Thy  pure  day 

Melt  in  upon  his  darkened  thought. 
Soften  his  hard,  cold  heart,  and  show 

The  power  which  in  forbearance  lies, 
And  let  him  feel  that  mercy  now 

Is  better  than  old  sacrifice! 


THE  III* MAN  SACRIFICE.  241 

VII. 

As  on  the  White  Sea's  l  charmed  shore, 

The  Parsee  sees  his  holy  hill 
With  dunnest  smoke-clouds  curtained  o'er, 
Yet  knows  beneath  them,  evermore, 

The  low.  pale  fire  is  quivering  still ; 
So  underneath  its  clouds  of  sin, 

The  heart  of  man  retaineth  yet 
Gleams  of  its  holy  origin  ; 

And  half-quenched  stars  that  never  set, 
Dim  colors  of  its  faded  bow, 

And  early  beauty,  linger  there, 
And  o'er  its  wasted  desert  blow 

Faint  breathings  of  its  morning  air. 
Oh !  never  yet  upon  the  scroll 
Of  the  sin-stained,  but  priceless  soul. 

Hath  Heaven  inscribed  "  DESPAIR!" 
Cast  not  the  clouded  gem  away, 
Quench  not  the  dim  but  living  ray  — 

My  brother  man.  Beware! 
With  that  deep  voice  which  from  the  skies 
Forbade  the  Patriarch's  sacrifice, 

God's  angel  cries,  FORBEAR! 

1843- 

1  Among  the  Tartars,  the  Caspian  is  known  as  Akdingis, 
that  is,  White  Sea.  Baku,  on  its  Persian  side,  is  remarkable 
for  its  perpetual  fire,  scarcely  discoverable  under  the  pitchy 
clouds  of  smoke  from  the  bitumen  which  feeds  it.  It  is  the 
natural  fire-altar  of  the  old  Persian  worship. 


242  MISCELLANEOUS. 


RANDOLPH    OF   ROANOKEo 

OH,  Mother  Earth !  upon  thy  lap 

Thy  weary  ones  receiving, 
And  o'er  them,  silent  as  a  dream, 

Thy  grassy  mantle  weaving, 
Fold  softly  in  thy  long  embrace 

That  heart  so  worn  and  broken, 
And  cool  its  pulse  of  fire  beneath 

Thy  shadows  old  and  oaken. 

Shut  out  from  him  the  bitter  word 

And  serpent  hiss  of  scorning ; 
Nor  let  the  storms  of  yesterday 

Disturb  his  quiet  morning. 
Breathe  over  him  forgetful  ness 

Of  all  save  deeds  of  kindness, 
And,  save  to  smiles  of  grateful  eyes, 

Press  down  his  lids  in  blindness. 

There,  where  with  living  ear  and  eye 

He  heard  Potomac's  flowing, 
And,  through  his  tall  ancestral  trees, 

Saw  autumn's  sunset  glowing, 
He  sleeps  —  still  looking  to  the  West., 

Beneath  the  dark  wood  shadow, 
As  if  he  still  would  see  the  sun 

Sink  down  on  wave  and  meadow. 

Bard,  Sage,  and  Tribune!  —  in  himself 
All  moods  of  mind  contrasting  — 


RANDOLPH   OF  ROANOKE.  243 

The  tenderest  wail  of  human  woe, 
The  scorn  like  lightning  blasting; 

The  pathos  which  from  rival  eyes 
Unwilling  tears  could  summon, 

The  stinging  taunt,  the  fiery  burst 
Of  hatred  scarcely  human! 

Mirth,  sparkling  like  a  diamond  shower, 

From  lips  of  life-long  sadness  ; 
Clear  picturings  of  majestic  thought 

Upon  a  ground  of  madness  ; 
And  over  all  Romance  and  Song 

A  classic  beauty  throwing, 
And  laurelled  Clio  at  his  side 

Her  storied  pages  showing. 

All  parties  feared  him  :  each  in  turn 

Beheld  its  schemes  disjointed, 
As  right  or  left  his  fatal  glance 

And  spectral  finger  pointed. 
Sworn  foe  of  Cant,  he  smote  it  down 

With  trenchant  wit  unsparing, 
And,  mocking,  rent  with  ruthless  hand 

The  robe  Pretence  was  wearing. 

Too  honest  or  too  proud  to  feign 

A  love  he  never  cherished, 
Beyond  Virginia's  border  line 

His  patriotism  perished. 
While  others  hailed  in  distant  skies 

Our  eagle's  dusky  pinion, 
He  only  saw  the  mountain  bird 

Stoop  o'er  his  Old  Dominion! 


244  MISCELLANE  O  US. 

Still  through  each  change  of  fortune  strange, 

Racked  nerve,  and  brain  all  burning, 
His  loving  faith  in  Mother-land 

Knew  never  shade  of  turning ; 
By  Britain's  lakes,  by  Neva's  wave, 

Whatever  sky  was  o'er  him, 
He  heard  her  rivers1  rushing  sound, 

Her  blue  peaks  rose  before  him. 

He  held  his  slaves,  yet  made  withal 

No  false  and  vain  pretences, 
Nor  paid  a  lying  priest  to  seek 

For  scriptural  defences. 
His  harshest  words  of  proud  rebuke, 

His  bitterest  taunt  and  scorning, 
Fell  fire-like  on  the  Northern  brow 

That  bent  to  him  in  fawning. 

He  held  his  slaves  :  yet  kept  the  while 

His  reverence  for  the  Human ; 
In  the  dark  vassals  of  his  will 

He  saw  but  Man  and  Woman! 
No  hunter  of  God's  outraged  poor 

His  Roanoke  valley  entered  ; 
No  trader  in  the  souls  of  men 

Across  his  threshold  ventured.1 

And  when  the  old  and  wearied  man 
Laid  down  for  his  last  sleeping, 

i  Randolph  had  a  hearty  hatred  of  slave  traders,  and  it  is 
said  treated  some  of  them  quite  roughly,  who  ventured  to 
cheapen  his  "  chattels  personal." 


RANDOLPH  OF  ROANOKE.  24$ 

And  at  his  side,  a  slave  no  more, 
His  brother  man  stood  weeping. 

His  latest  thought,  his  latest  breath. 
To  Freedom's  duty  giving. 

With  failing  tongue  and  trembling  hand 
The  dying  blest  the  living. 

Oh!  never  bore  his  ancient  State 

A  truer  son  or  braver! 
None  trampling  with  a  calmer  scorn 

On  foreign  hate  or  favor. 
He  knew  her  faults,  yet  never  stooped 

His  proud  and  manly  feeling 
To  poor  excuses  of  the  wrong 

Or  meanness  of  concealing. 

But  none  beheld  with  clearer  eye 

The  plague-spot  o'er  her  spreading, 
None  heard  more  sure  the  steps  of  Doom 

Along  her  future  treading. 
For  her  as  for  himself  he  spake, 

When,  his  gaunt  frame  upbracing, 
He  traced  with  dying  hand  "REMORSE!'11 

And  perished  in  the  tracing. 

As  from  the  grave  where  Henry  sleeps, 
From  Vernon's  weeping  willow, 

And  from  the  grassy  pall  which  hides 
The  Sage  of  Monticello, 

l  See  the  remarkable  statement  of  Dr.  Parish,  his  medical 
attendant. 


246  MISCELLANEOUS. 

So  from  the  leaf-strewn  burial-stone 

Of  Randolph's  lowly  dwelling, 
Virginia!  o'er  thy  land  of  slaves 

A  warning  voice  is  swelling! 

And  hark!  from  thy  deserted  fields 

Are  sadder  warnings  spoken, 
From  quenched  hearths,  where  thy  exiled  sons 

Their  household  gods  have  broken. 
The  curse  is  on  thee  —  wolves  for  men, 

And  briars  for  corn-sheaves  giving! 
Oh!  more  than  all  thy  dead  renown 

Were  now  one  hero  living! 

1847- 


DEMOCRACY. 

["  All  things  whatsoever  ye  would  that  men  should  do  to 
you,  do  ye  even  so  to  them."  —  Matthew  vii.  12.] 

BEARER  of  Freedom's  holy  light, 
Breaker  of  Slavery's  chain  and  rod, 

The  foe  of  all  which  pains  the  light, 
Or  wounds  the  generous  ear  of  God! 

Beautiful  yet  thy  temples  rise, 

Though  there  profaning  gifts  are  thrown ; 
And  fires  unkindled  of  the  skies 

Are  glaring  round  thy  altar-stone. 


DEMOCRACY.  247 

Still  sacred  —  though  thy  name  be  breathed 
By  those  whose  hearts  thy  truth  deride ; 

And  garlands,  plucked  from  thee,  are  wreathed 
Around  the  haughty  brows  of  Pride. 


O,  ideal  of  my  boyhood's  time! 

The  faith  in  which  my  father  stood, 
Even  when  the  sons  of  Lust  and  Crime 

Had  stained  thy  peaceful  courts  with  blood ! 

Still  to  those  courts  my  footsteps  turn, 

For  through  the  mists  which  darken  there, 

I  see  the  flame  of  Freedom  burn  — 
The  Kebla  of  the  patriot's  prayer! 

The  generous  feeling,  pure  and  warm, 
Which  owns  the  rights  of  all  divine  — 

The  pitying  heart  —  the  helping  arm  — 
The  prompt  self-sacrifice  —  are  thine. 


Beneath  thy  broad,  impartial  eye, 

How  fade  the  lines  of  caste  and  birth! 

How  equal  in  their  suffering  lie 
The  groaning  multitudes  of  earth! 

Still  to  a  stricken  brother  true, 
Whatever  clime  hath  nurtured  him  ; 

As  stooped  to  heal  the  wounded  Jew 
The  worshipper  of  Gerizim. 


>48  MISCELLANEOUS. 

By  misery  unrepelled,  unawed 

By  pomp  or  power,  thou  seest  a  MAN 

In  prince  or  peasant — slave  or  lord  — 
Pale  priest,  or  swarthy  artisan. 


Through  all  disguise,  form,  place,  or  name, 
Beneath  the  flaunting  robes  of  sin, 

Through  poverty  and  squalid  shame, 
Thou  lookest  on  the  man  within. 


On  man,  as  man,  retaining  yet, 

However  debased,  and  soiled,  and  dim, 

The  crown  upon  his  forehead  set  — 
The  immortal  gift  of  God  to  him. 

And  there  is  reverence  in  thy  look ; 

For  that  frail  form  which  mortals  wear 
The  Spirit  of  the  Holiest  took, 

And  veiled  His  perfect  brightness  there. 

Not  from  the  shallow  babbling  fount 

Of  vain  philosophy  thou  art ; 
He  who  of  old  on  Syria's  mount 

Thrilled,  warmed,  by  turns,  the  listener's  heart, 

In  holy  words  which  cannot  die, 

In  thoughts  which  angels  leaned  to  know, 

Proclaimed  thy  message  from  on  high  — 
Thy  mission  to  a  world  of  woe. 


TO  RONGE.  249 

That  voice's  echo  hath  not  died! 

From  the  blue  lake  of  Galilee, 
And  Tabor's  lonely  mountain  side, 

It  calls  a  struggling  world  to  thee. 

Thy  name  and  watchword  o'er  this  land 
I  hear  in  every  breeze  that  stirs, 

And  round  a  thousand  altars  stand 
Thy  banded  party  worshippers. 

Not  to  these  altars  of  a  day, 
At  party's  call,  my  gift  I  bring ; 

But  on  thy  olden  shrine  I  lay 
A  freeman's  dearest  offering  :  — 

The  voiceless  utterance  of  his  will  — 
His  pledge  to  Freedom  and  to  Truth, 

That  manhood's  heart  remembers  still 
The  homage  of  his  generous  youth. 
Election  Day,  1843. 


TO   RONGE. 

STRIKE  home,  strong-hearted  man!     Down  to  the 

root 

Of  old  oppression  sink  the  Saxon  steel. 
Thy  work  is  to  hew  down.     In  God's  name  then 
Put  nerve  into  thy  task.     Let  other  men 
Plant,  as  they  may,  that  better  tree,  whose  fruit 
The  wounded  bosom  of  the  Church  shall  heal. 
Be  thou  the  image-breaker.     Let  thy  blows 
Fall  heavy  as  the  Suabian's  iron  hand, 


250  MISCELLANE  O  US. 

On  crown  or  crosier,  which  shall  interpose 
Between  thee  and  the  weal  of  Father-land. 
Leave  creeds  to  closet  idlers.     First  of  all, 
Shake  thou  all  German  dream-land  with  the  fall 
Of  that  accursed  tree,  whose  evil  trunk 
Was  spared  of  old  by  Erfurt's  stalwart  monk. 
Fight  not  with  ghosts  and  shadows.     Let  us  hear 
The  snap  of  chain-links.     Let  our  gladdened  ear 
Catch  the  pale  prisoner's  welcome,  as  the  light 
Follows  thy  axe-stroke,  through  his  cell  of  night. 
Be  faithful  to  both  worlds  ;  nor  think  to  feed 
Earth's  starving  millions  with  the  husks  of  creed. 
Servant  of  Him  whose  mission  high  and  holy 
Was  to  the  wronged,  the  sorrowing,  and  the  lowly, 
Thrust  not  His  Eden  promise  from  our  sphere, 
Distant  and  dim  beyond  the  blue  sky's  span ; 
Like  him  of  Patmos,  see  it,  now  and  here,  — 
The  New  Jerusalem  comes  down  to  man! 
Be  warned  by  Luther's  error.     Nor  like  him, 
When  the  roused  Teuton  dashes  from  his  limb 
The  rusted  chain  of  ages,  help  to  bind 
His  hands,  for  whom  thou  claim'st  the  freedom  of 

the  mind! 
1846. 


CHALKLE  Y  I/A/  f..  2$  I 


CHALKLEY   HALL.1 

How  bland  and  sweet  the  greeting  of  this  breeze 

To  him  who  Hies 

From  crowded  street  and  red  wall's  weary  gleam, 
Till  far  behind  him  like  a  hideous  dream 

The  close  dark  city  lies!  — 

Here,  while  the  market  murmurs,  while  men  throng 

The  marble  floor 

Of  Mammon's  altar,  from  the  crush  and  din 
Of  the  world's  madness  let  me  gather  in 

My  better  thoughts  once  more. 

Oh!  once  again  revive,  while  on  my  ear 

The  cry  of  Gain 

And  low  hoarse  hum  of  Traffic  dies  away, 
Ye  blessed  memories  of  my  early  day 

Like  sere  grass  wet  with  rain!- 

i  Chalkley  Hall,  near  Frankford,  Pa.,  the  residence  of 
THOMAS  CHALKI.EY,  an  eminent  minister  of  the  "  Friends" 
denomination.  He  was  one  of  the  early  settlers  of  the  Colony, 
and  his  Journal,  which  was  published  in  1749,  presents  a 
quaint  but  beautiful  picture  of  a  life  of  unostentatious  and 
simple  goodness.  He  was  the  master  of  a  merchant  vessel, 
and,  in  his  visits  to  the  West  Indies  and  Great  Britain,  omitted 
no  opportunity  to  labor  for  the  highest  interests  of  his 
fellow-men.  During  a  temporary  residence  in  Philadelphia, 
in  the  summer  of  1838,  the  quiet  and  beautiful  scenery  around 
the  ancient  village  of  Frankford  frequently  attracted  me  from 
the  heat  anil  bustle  of  the  city. 


252  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Once  more  let  God's  green  earth  and  sunset  air 

Old  feelings  waken ; 

Through  weary  years  of  toil  and  strife  and  ill, 
Oh,  let  me  feel  that  my  good  angel  still 

Hath  not  his  trust  forsaken. 

And  well  do  time  and  place  befit  my  mood  : 

Beneath  the  arms 

Of  this  embracing  wood,  a  good  man  made 
His  home,  like  Abraham  resting  in  the  shade 

Of  Mamre's  lonely  palms. 

Here,  rich  with  autumn  gifts  of  countless  years, 

The  virgin  soil 

Turned  from  the  share  he  guided,  and  in  rain 
And  summer  sunshine  throve  the  fruits  and  grain 

Which  blessed  his  honest  toil. 

Here,  from  his  voyages  on  the  stormy  seas, 

Weary  and  worn, 

He  came  to  meet  his  children,  and  to  bless 
The  Giver  of  all  good  in  thankfulness 

And  praise  for  his  return. 

And  here  his  neighbors  gathered  in  to  greet 

Their  friend  again, 

Safe  from  the  wave  and  the  destroying  gales, 
Which  reap  untimely  green  Bermuda's  vales, 

And  vex  the  Carib  main. 

To  hear  the  good  man  tell  of  simple  truth, 

Sown  in  an  hour 
Of  weakness  in  some  far-off  Indian  isle, 


CHALK  LEY  HALL.  253 

From  the  parched  bosom  of  a  barren  soil, 
Raised  up  in  life  and  power : 

How  at  those  gatherings  in  Barbadian  vales, 

A  tendering  love 

Came  o'er  him,  like  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven, 
And  words  of  fitness  to  his  lips  were  given, 

And  strength  as  from  above : 

How  the  sad  captive  listened  to  the  Word, 

Until  his  chain 

Grew  lighter,  and  his  wounded  spirit  felt 
The  healing  balm  of  consolation  melt 

Upon  its  life-long  pain  : 

How  the  armed  warrior  sate  him  down  to  hear 

Of  Peace  and  Truth, 

And  the  proud  ruler  and  his  Creole  dame, 
Jewelled  and  gorgeous  in  her  beauty  came, 

And  fair  and  bright-eyed  youth. 

Oh,  far  away  beneath  New  England's  sky, 

Even  when  a  boy, 

Following  my  plough  by  Merrimack's  green  shore, 
His  simple  record  I  have  pondered  o'er 

With  deep  and  quiet  joy. 

And  hence  this  scene,  in  sunset  glory  warm  — 

Its  woods  around, 

Its  still  stream  winding  on  in  light  and  shade, 
Its  soft,  green  meadows  and  its  upland  glade-- 

To  me  is  holy  ground. 


254  MISCELLANE  0  US. 

And  dearer  far  than  haunts  where  Genius  keeps 

His  vigils  still ; 

Than  that  where  Avon's  son  of  song  is  laid, 
Or  Vaucluse  hallowed  by  its  Petrarch's  shade, 

Or  Virgil's  laurelled  hill. 

To  the  gray  walls  of  fallen  Paraclete, 

To  Juliet's  urn, 

Fair  Arno  and  Sorrento's  orange  grove, 
Where  Tasso  sang,  let  young  Romance  and  Love 

Like  brother  pilgrims  turn. 

But  here  a  deeper  and  serener  charm 

To  all  is  given  ; 

And  blessed  memories  of  the  faithful  dead 
O'er  wood  and  vale  and  meadow-stream  have  shed 

The  holy  hues  of  Heaven! 

1843- 


TO   JOHN    P1ERPONT. 

NOT  as  a  poor  requital  of  the  joy 

With  which  my  childhood  heard  that  lay  of  thine, 
Which,  like  an  echo  of  the  song  divine 
At  Bethlehem  breathed  above  the  Holy  Boy, 

Bore  to  my  ear  the  airs  of  Palestine,  — 
Not  to  the  poet,  but  the  man  I  bring 
In  friendship's  fearless  trust  my  offering: 
How  much  it  lacks  I  feel,  and  thou  wilt  see, 
Yet  well  I  know  that  thou  hast  deemed  with  me 


THE   CYPRESS    TREE   OF  CEYLON.     255 

Life  all  too  earnest,  and  its  time  too  short 
For  dreamy  ease  and  Fancy's  graceful  sport  ; 

And  girded  for  thy  constant  strife  with  wrong, 
Like  Nehemiah  fighting  while  he  wrought 

The  broken  walls  of  /ion.  even  thy  song 
1  lath  a  rude  martial  tone,  a  blow  in  every  thought! 


THE  CYPRESS  TREE  OF  CEYLON. 

[Ibn  Batuta,  the  celebrated  Mussulman  traveller  of  the  four 
teenth  century,  speaks  of  a  Cypress  tree  in  Ceylon,  universally 
held  sacred  by  the  natives,  the  leaves  of  which  were  said  to  fall 
only  at  certain  intervals,  and  he  who  had  the  happiness  to  find 
and  eat  one  of  them,  was  restored,  at  once,  to  youth  and  vigor. 
'Hit-  traveller  saw  several  venerable  JOGF.ES,  or  saints,  sitting 
silent  and  motionless  under  the  tree,  patiently  awaiting  the  fall 
ing  of  a  leaf.] 

THEY  sat  in  silent  watchfulness 

The  sacred  cypress  tree  about, 
And,  from  beneath  old  wrinkled  brows 

Their  failing  eyes  looked  out. 

Gray  Age  and  Sickness  waiting  there 

Through  weary  night  and  lingering  day  — 

Grim  as  the  idols  at  their  side 
And  motionless  as  they. 

Unheeded  in  the  boughs  above 

The  song  of  Ceylon's  birds  was  sweet  ; 

Unseen  of  them  the  island  flowers 
Bloomed  brightly  at  their  feet. 


256  MIS  CELLANE  O  US. 

O'er  them  the  tropic  night-storm  swept, 
The  thunder  crashed  on  rock  and  hill ; 

The  cloud-fire  on  their  eye-balls  blazed, 
Yet  there  they  waited  still ! 

What  was  the  vorld  without  to  them? 

The  Moslem's  sunset  call  —  the  dance 
Of  Ceylon's  maids  —  the  passing  gleam 

Of  battle-flag  and  lance  ? 

They  waited  for  that  falling  leaf, 

Of  which  the  wandering  Jogees  sing : 

Which  lends  once  more  to  wintry  age 
The  greenness  of  its  spring. 

Oh!  —  if  these  poor  and  blinded  ones 
In  trustful  patience  wait  to  feel 

O'er  torpid  pulse  and  failing  limb 
A  youthful  freshness  steal ; 

Shall  we,  who  sit  beneath  that  Tree, 
W'hose  healing  leaves  of  life  are  shed 

In  answer  to  the  breath  of  prayer 
Upon  the  waiting  head  : 

Not  to  restore  our  failing  forms, 

And  build  the  spirit's  broken  shrine, 

But,  on  the  fainting  SOUL  to  shed 
A  light  and  life  divine  : 

Shall  we  grow  weary  in  our  watch, 
And  murmur  at  the  long  delay? 

Impatient  of  our  Father's  time 
And  His  appointed  way? 


THE    C)77v'/-:.V.V    TREE    OI-    CEYLON.     257 

Or,  shall  the  stir  of  outward  things 
Allure  and  claim  the  Christian's  eye, 

When  on  the  heathen  watcher's  ear 
Their  powerless  murmurs  die  ? 

Alas!  a  deeper  test  of  faith 

Than  prison  cell  or  martyr's  stake, 

The  self-abasing  watchfulness 
Of  silent  prayer  may  make. 

We  gird  us  bravely  to  rebuke 

Our  erring  brother  in  the  wrong : 
And  in  the  ear  of  Pride  and  Power 

Our  warning  voice  is  strong. 

Easier  to  smite  with  Peter's  sword, 

Than  u  watch  one  hour  "  in  humbling  prayer : 

Life's  "  great  things,1'  like  the  Syrian  lord 
Our  hearts  can  do  and  dare. 

But  oh!  we  shrink  from  Jordan's  side, 
From  waters  which  alone  can  save : 

And  murmur  for  Abana's  banks 
And  Pharpar's  brighter  wave. 

Oh,  Thou,  who  in  the  garden's  shade 
Didst  wake  Thy  weary  ones  again, 

Who  slumbered  at  that  fearful  hour 
Forgetful  of  Thy  pain  ; 

Bend  o'er  us  now,  as  over  them, 

And  set  our  sleep-bound  spirits  free, 

Nor  leave  us  slumbering  in  the  watch 
Our  souls  should  keep  with  Thee! 

1841. 


258  MISCELLANEOUS. 


A   DREAM    OF    SUMMER. 

BLAND  as  the  morning  breath  of  June 

The  southwest  breezes  play ; 
And,  through  its  haze,  the  winter  noon 

Seems  warm  as  summer's  day. 
The  snow-plumed  Angel  of  the  North 

Has  dropped  his  icy  spear ; 
Again  the  mossy  earth  looks  forth, 

Again  the  streams  gush  clear. 

The  fox  his  hillside  cell  forsakes, 

The  muskrat  leaves  his  nook, 
The  bluebird  in  the  meadow  brakes 

Is  singing  with  the  brook. 
"  Bear  up,  oh  mother  Nature! "  cry 

Bird,  breeze,  and  streamlet  free ; 
"  Our  winter  voices  prophesy 

Of  summer  days  to  thee !  " 

So,  in  those  winters  of  the  soul, 

By  bitter  blasts  and  drear 
O'erswept  from  Memory's  frozen  pole. 

Will  sunny  days  appear. 
Reviving  Hope  and  Faith,  they  show 

The  soul  its  living  powers, 
And  how  beneath  the  winter's  snow 

Lie  germs  of  summer  flowers! 


TO .  259 

The  Night  is  mother  of  the  Day, 

The  Winter  of  the  Spring, 
And  ever  upon  old  Decay 

The  greenest  mosses  cling. 
Behind  the  cloud  the  starlight  lurks. 

Through  showers  the  sunbeams  fall ; 
For  God,  who  loveth  all  His  works, 

Has  left  His  Hope  with  all! 
4//r  \st  month,  1847. 


TO   , 

WITH  A  COPY  OF  WOOLMAN'S  JOURNAL. l 

MAIDEN!  with  the  fair  brown  tresses 

Shading  o'er  thy  dreamy  eye, 
Floating  on  thy  thoughtful  forehead 

Cloud  wreaths  of  its  sky. 

Youthful  years  and  maiden  beauty, 
Joy  with  them  should  still  abide  — 

Instinct  take  the  place  of  Duty  — 
Love,  not  Reason,  guide. 

Ever  in  the  New  rejoicing, 

Kindly  beckoning  back  the  Old, 

Turning,  with  a  power  like  Midas, 
All  things  into  gold. 

2  "  Get  the  writings  of  John  Woolman  by   heart."— Assays 
ofElia, 


260  MISCELLANE  O  US. 

And  the  passing  shades  of  sadness 
Wearing  even  a  welcome  guise, 

As  when  some  bright  lake  lies  open 
To  the  sunny  skies  ; 

Every  wing  of  bird  above  it, 
Every  light  cloud  floating  on, 

Glitters  like  that  flashing  mirror 
In  the  self-same  sun. 

But  upon  thy  youthful  forehead 
Something  like  a  shadow  lies ; 

And  a  serious  soul  is  looking 
From  thy  earnest  eyes. 

With  an  early  introversion, 

Through  the  forms  of  outward  things. 
Seeking  for  the  subtle  essence, 

And  the  hidden  springs. 

Deeper  than  the  gilded  surface 
Hath  thy  wakeful  vision  seen, 

Farther  than  the  narrow  present 
Have  thy  journeyings  been. 

Thou  hast  midst  Life's  empty  noises 
Heard  the  solemn  steps  of  Time, 

And  the  low  mysterious  voices 
Of  another  clime. 

All  the  mystery  of  Being 

Hath  upon  thy  spirit  pressed  — 

Thoughts  which,  like  the  Deluge  wanderer, 
Find  no  place  of  rest : 


TO .  26l 

That  which  mystic  Plato  pondered. 
That  which  Xeno  heard  with  awe, 

And  the  star-rapt  Zoroaster 
In  his  night-watch  saw. 

From  the  doubt  and  darkness  springing 
Of  the  dim,  uncertain  Past, 

Mm  in-  to  the  dark  still  shadows 
O'er  the  Future  cast, 

Karly  hath  Life's  mighty  question 
Thrilled  within  thy  heart  of  youth 

With  a  deep  and  strong  beseeching: 
WHAT  and  WHERE  is  TRUTH? 

Hollow  creed  and  ceremonial, 
Whence  the  ancient  life  hath  fled, 

Idle  faith  unknown  to  action, 
Dull  and  cold  and  dead. 

Oracles,  whose  wire-worked  meanings 

Only  wake  a  quiet  scorn,  — 
Not  from  these  thy  seeking  spirit 

Hath  its  answer  drawn. 

But,  like  some  tired  child  at  even. 

On  thy  mother  Nature's  breast, 
Thou,  methinks,  art  vainly  seeking 

Truth,  and  peace,  and  rest. 

O'er  that  mother's  rugged  features 
Thou  art  throwing  Fancy's  veil, 

Light  and  soft  as  woven  moonbeams, 
Beautiful  and  frail! 


262  M  ISC  EL  LANE  0  US. 

O'er  the  rough  chart  of  Existence, 
Rocks  of  sin  and  wastes  of  woe, 

Soft  airs  breathe,  and  green  leaves  tremble, 
And  cool  fountains  flow. 

And  to  thee  an  answer  cometh 
From  the  earth  and  from  the  sky, 

And  to  thee  the  hills  and  waters 
And  the  stars  reply. 

But  a  soul-sufficing  answer 

Hath  no  outward  origin  ; 
More  than  Nature's  many  voices 

May  be  heard  within. 

Even  as  the  great  Augustine 

Questioned  earth  and  sea  and  sky,1 

And  the  dusty  tomes  of  learning 
And  old  poesy. 

But  his  earnest  spirit  needed 
More  than  outward  Nature  taught  — 

More  than  blest  the  poet's  vision 
Or  the  sage's  thought. 

Only  in  the  gathered  silence 
Of  a  calm  and  waiting  frame 

Light  and  wisdom  as  from  Heaven 
To  the  seeker  came. 

1  August.  Sililoq.  cap.  xxxi.,  "  Interrogavi  Terram,"  etc. 


TO  -  263 

Not  to  ease  and  aimless  quiet 

Doth  that  inward  answer  tend, 
But  to  works  of  love  and  duty 

As  our  being's  end,  — 

Not  to  idle  dreams  and  trances, 
Length  of  face,  and  solemn  tone, 

But  to  Faith,  in  daily  striving 
And  performance  shown. 

Earnest  toil  and  strong  endeavor 

Of  a  spirit  which  within 
Wrestles  with  familiar  evil 

And  besetting  sin ; 

And  without,  with  tireless  vigor, 
Steady  heart,  and  weapon  strong, 

In  the  power  of  truth  assailing 
Every  form  of  wrong. 

Guided  thus,  how  passing  lovely 
Is  the  track  of  WOOL. MAX'S  feet! 

And  his  brief  and  simple  record 
How  serenely  sweet! 

O'er  life's  humblest  duties  throwing 

Light  the  earthling  never  knew, 
Freshening  all  its  dark  waste  places 

As  with  Hermon's  dew. 

All  which  glows  in  Pascal's  pages  — 
All  which  sainted  Guion  sought, 

Or  the  blue-eyed  German  Rahel 
Halt-unconscious  taught :  — 


264  MISCELLANE  O  US. 

Beauty,  such  as  Goethe  pictured, 
Such  as  Shelley  dreamed  of,  shed 

Living  warmth  and  starry  brightness 
Round  that  poor  man's  head. 

Not  a  vain  and  cold  ideal, 

Not  a  poet's  dream  alone, 
But  a  presence  warm  and  real, 

Seen  and  felt  and  known. 

When  the  red  right  hand  of  slaughter 
Moulders  with  the  steel  it  swung, 

When  the  name  of  seer  and  poet 
Dies  on  Memory's  tongue, 

All  bright  thoughts  and  pure  shall  gather 
Round  that  meek  and  suffering  one  — 

Glorious,  like  the  seer-seen  angel 
Standing  in  the  sun! 

Take  the  good  man's  book  and  ponder 
What  its  pages  say  to  thee  — 

Blessed  as  the  hand  of  healing 
May  its  lesson  be. 

If  it  only  serves  to  strengthen 
Yearnings  for  a  higher  good, 

For  the  fount  of  living  waters 
And  diviner  food ; 

If  the  pride  of  human  reason 
Feels  its  meek  and  still  rebuke., 

Quailing  like  the  eye  of  Peter 
From  the  Just  One's  look!  — 


LEGGETT'S  MONUMENT.  26$ 

If  with  readier  ear  thou  heedest 
What  the  Inward  Teacher  saith, 

Listening  with  a  willing  spirit 
And  a  child-like  faith,  — 

Thou  mayest  live  to  bless  the  giver, 
Who  himself  but  trail  and  weak, 

Would  at  least  the  highest  welfare 
Of  another  seek ; 

And  his  gift,  though  poor  and  lowly 

It  may  seem  to  other  eyes, 
Yet  may  prove  an  angel  holy 

In  a  pilgrim's  guise. 
1840. 

LEGGETT'S    MONUMENT. 
"  Ye  build  the  tombs  of  the  prophets."  —  HOLY  WRIT. 

YES  —  pile  the  marble  o'er  him!     It  is  well 

That  ye  who  mocked  him  in  his  long  stern  strife, 

And  planted  in  the  pathway  of  his  life 
The  ploughshares  of  your  hatred  hot  from  hell, 

Who  clamored  down  the  bold  reformer  when 

He  pleaded  for  his  captive  fellow-men, 
Who  spurned  him  in  the  market-place,  and  sought 

Within  thy  walls,  St.  Tammany,  to  bind 
In  party  chains  the  free  and  honest  thought, 

The  angel  utterance  of  an  upright  mind,  — 
Well  is  it  now  that  o'er  his  grave  ye  raise 
The  stony  tribute  of  your  tardy  praise, 
For  not  alone  that  pile  shall  tell  to  Fame 
Of  the  brave  heart  beneath,  but  of  the  builders'  shame! 

1841. 


266  MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE   ANGELS    OF    BUENA   VISTA. 

[A  LETTER-WRITER  from  Mexico  states  that,  at  the  terrible 
fight  of  Buena  Vista,  MEXICAN  women  were  seen  hovering 
near  the  field  of  death,  for  the  purpose  of  giving  aid  and 
succor  to  the  wounded.  One  poor  woman  was  found  sur 
rounded  by  the  maimed  and  suffering  of  both  armies,  minister 
ing  to  the  wants  of  AMERICANS  as  well  as  MEXICANS,  with 
impartial  tenderness.] 

SPEAK  and  tell  us,  our  Ximena,  looking  northward 

far  away, 
O'er   the  camp  of  the    invaders,  o^r   the    Mexican 

array, 
Who   is   losing?   who  is  winning?   are  they  far   or 

come  they  near? 
Look  abroad,  and  tell  us,   sister,  whither  rolls  the 

storm  we  hear. 

"  Down    the    hills    of  Angostura   still   the  storm  of 

battle  rolls  ; 
Blood  is  flowing,  men  are  dying;  God  have  mercy 

on  their  souls !  " 
Who  is  losing?  who  is  winning?  —  "Over  hill  and 

over  plain, 
I    see  but  smoke   of  cannon  clouding  through    the 

mountain  rain." 

Holy  Mother!    keep  our  brothers!     Look,  Ximena, 

look  once  more  : 
"  Still   I  see  the  fearful  whirlwind  rolling  darkly  as 

before, 


THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA    VISTA.      267 

Bearing  on.  in  strange  confusion,  friend  and  foeman, 

foot  and  horse, 
Like  some  wild  and  troubled  torrent  sweeping  down 

its  mountain  course." 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena!     "Ah!  the  smoke 

has  rolled  away  ; 
And  I  see  the  Northern  rifles  gleaming  down  the 

ranks  of  gray. 
Hark!  that  sudden  blast  of  bugles!  there  the  troop 

of  Minon  wheels : 
There  the  Northern  horses  thunder,  with  the  cannon 

at  their  heels. 

"Jesu,  pity!  how  it  thickens!  now  retreat  and  now 

advance ! 
Right  against  the  blazing  cannon  shivers  Puebla's 

charging  lance! 
Down  they  go,  the  brave  young  riders ;   horse  and 

foot  together  fall ; 
Like    a   ploughshare    in    the   fallow,   through    them 

plough  the  Northern  ball." 

Nearer  came  the  storm  and  nearer,  rolling  fast  and 

frightful  on : 
Speak,  Ximena,  speak  and  tell  us,  who  has  lost,  and 

who  has  won  ? 
"  Alas !  ala= !  I  know  not ;   friend  and  foe  together 

fall, 
O'er  the  dying  rush  the  living :  pray,  my  sisters,  for 

them  all!" 


268  MISCELLANEOUS. 

"Lo!  the  wind  the  smoke  is  lifting:  Blessed  Mother, 

save  my  brain! 
I    can    see  the  wounded   crawling   slowly  out    from 

heaps  of  slain. 
Now  they  stagger,   blind  and   bleeding ;    now  they 

fall,  and  strive  to  rise ; 
Hasten,  sisters,  haste  and  save  them,  lest  they  die 

before  our  eyes !  " 

"Oh  my  heart's  love!  oh  my  dear  one!  lay  thy  poor 

head  on  my  knee  ; 
Dost  thou  know  the  lips  that  kiss  thee?     Canst  thou 

hear  me?  canst  thou  see? 
Oh,  my  husband,  brave  and  gentle!  oh,  my  Bernal, 

look  once  more 
On  the  blessed  cross  before  thee!  mercy!  mercy!  all 

is  o'er!  " 

Dry  thy  tears,  my  poor  Ximena ;   lay  thy  dear  one 

dowrn  to  rest ; 
Let  his  hands  be  meekly  folded,  lay  the  cross  upon 

his  breast ; 
Let    his    dirge   be   sung   hereafter,   and    his   funeral 

masses  said  ; 
To-day,  thou  poor  bereaved  one,  the  living  ask  thy 

aid. 

Close  beside  her,  faintly  moaning,  fair  and  young,  a 

soldier  lay, 
Torn   with   shot  and   pierced   with   lances,   bleeding 

slow  his  life  away ; 


THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA    17STA.      269 

Hut.    as    tenderly    before    him,     the     lorn     Ximena 

knelt, 
She  saw  the  Northern  eagle  shining  on  his  pistol 

belt. 

With  a  stifled  cry  of  horror  straight  she  turned  away 

her  head  ; 
With  a  sad  and   hitter  teeling  looked  she  hack  upon 

her  dead  : 
I'.ut   she   heard    the  youth's   low   moaning,  and    his 

struggling  breath  of  pain, 
And  she  raised  the  cooling  water  to  his  parching  lips 

again. 

Whispered  low  the  dying  soldier,  pressed  her  hand 
and  faintly  smiled : 

Was  that  pitying  face  his  mother's?  did  she  watch 
beside  her  child  ? 

All  his  stranger  words  with  meaning  her  woman's 
heart  supplied ; 

With  her  kiss  upon  his  forehead,  "  Mother! "  mur 
mured  he,  and  died! 

"  A  bitter  curse  upon  them,  poor  boy,  who  led  thee 

forth, 
From  some  gentle,  sad-eyed  mother,  weeping,  lonely, 

in  the  North ! " 
Spake  the  mournful  Mexic  woman,  as  she  laid  him 

with  her  dead, 
And  turned  to  soothe  the  living,  and  bind  the  wounds 

which  bled. 


2/0  MISCELLANE  0  US. 

Look    forth    once   more,    Ximena!     "  Like   a   cloud 

before  the  wind 
Rolls  the  battle  down  the  mountains,  leaving  blood 

and  death  behind ; 
Ah!  they  plead  in  vain  for  mercy;  in  the  dust  the 

wounded  strive ; 
Hide  your  faces,   holy  angels!    oh,   thou   Christ  of 

God,  forgive!" 

Sink,  oh  Night,  among  thy  Mountains!  let  the  cool, 

gray  shadows  fall ; 
Dying  brothers,  fighting  demons,  drop  thy  curtain 

over  all! 
Through  the  thickening  winter  twilight,  wide  apart 

the  battle  rolled, 
In  its  sheath  the  sabre  rested,  and  the  cannon's  lips 

grew  cold. 

But  the  noble  Mexic  women  still  their  holy  task  pursued, 
Through  that  long,  dark  night  of  sorrow,  worn  and 

faint  and  lacking  food  ; 
Over  weak  and  suffering  brothers,  with  a  tender  care 

they  hung, 
And  the   dying  foeman  blessed  them  in  a  strange 

and  Northern  tongue. 

Not  wholly  lost,  oh  Father!  is  this  evil  world  of  ours  ; 
Upward,  through  its  blood  and  ashes,  spring  afresh 

the  Eden  flowers ; 
From    its    smoking   hell    of   battle,    Love   and    Pity 

send  their  prayer, 
And  still  thy  white-winged  angels  hover  dimly  in  oMr 

air! 
1847- 


FORGIVENESS.  2/1 


FORGIVENESS. 

MY  heart  was  heavy,  for  its  trust  had  been 

Abused,  its  kindness  answered  with  foul  wrong ; 

So,  turning  gloomily  from  my  fellow-men. 
One  summer  Sabbath  day  I  strolled  among 

The  green  mounds  of  the  village  burial  place ; 
Where,  pondering  how  all  human  love  and  hate 
Find  one  sad  level  —  and  how,  soon  or  late, 

Wronged  and  wrong-doer,  each  with  meekened  face, 
And  cold  hands  folded  over  a  still  heart, 

Pass  the  green  threshold  of  our  common  grave, 
Whither  all  footsteps  tend,  whence  none  depart, 

Awed  for  myself,  and  pitying  my  race, 

Our  common  sorrow,  like  a  mighty  wave, 

Swept  all  my  pride  away,  and  trembling  I  forgave! 

1846. 


BARCLAY   OF   URY. 

[Among  the  earliest  converts  to  the  doctrines  of  FRIENDS, 
in  Scotland,  was  BARCLAY,  of  URY,  an  old  and  distinguished 
soldier,  who  had  fought  under  GUSTAVUS  ADOLPHUS,  in  Ger 
many.  As  a  Quaker,  he  became  the  object  of  persecution  and 
abuse  at  the  hands  of  the  magistrates  and  the  populace.  None 
bore  the  indignities  of  the  mob  with  greater  patience  and 
nobleness  of  soul  than  this  once  proud  gentleman  and  soldier. 
One  of  his  friends,  on  an  occasion  of  uncommon  rudeness, 
lamented  that  he  should  be  treated  so  harshly  in  his  old  age, 
who  had  been  so  honored  before.  "  I  find  more  satisfaction," 
said  BARCLAY,  "as  well  as  honor,  in  being  thus  insulted  for 


2/2  MISCELLANE  O  US. 

my  religious  principles,  than  when,  a  few  years  ago,  it  was 
usual  for  the  magistrates,  as  I  passed  the  city  of  Aberdeen,  to 
meet  me  on  the  road  and  conduct  me  to  public  entertainment 
in  their  hall,  and  then  escort  me  out  again,  to  gain  my  favor."] 

UP  the  streets  of  Aberdeen, 
By  the  kirk  and  college  green. 

Rode  the  Laird  of  Ury  ; 
Close  behind  him,  close  beside, 
Foul  of  mouth  and  evil-eyed, 

Pressed  the  mob  in  fury. 

Flouted  him  the  drunken  churl, 
Jeered  at  him  the  serving  girl, 

Prompt  to  please  her  master ; 
And  the  begging  carlin,  late 
Fed  and  clothed  at  Ury's  gate, 

Cursed  him  as  he  passed  her." 

Yet,  with  calm  and  stately  mien, 
Up  the  streets  of  Aberdeen 

Came  he  slowly  riding ; 
And,  to  all  he  saw  and  heard 
Answering  not  with  bitter  word, 

Turning  not  for  chiding. 

Came  a  troop  with  broadswords  swinging, 
Bits  and  bridles  sharply  ringing, 

Loose  and  free  and  froward  ; 
Quoth  the  foremost,  "Ride  him  down! 
Push  him!  prick  him!  through  the  town 

Drive  the  Quaker  coward!  " 


BARCLAY   OF  URY. 

But  from  out  the  thickening  crowd 
Cried  a  sudden  voice  and  loud  : 

"Barclay!     Ho!  a  Harclay!" 
And  the  old  man  at  his  side, 
Saw  a  comrade,  battle  tried, 

Scarred  and  sunburned  darkly ; 

Who  with  ready  weapon  bare, 
Fronting  to  the  troopers  there, 

Cried  aloud  :  "  God  save  us! 
Call  ye  coward  him  who  stood  * 
Ankle  deep  in  Lutzen's  blood, 

With  the  brave  Gustavus  ? " 

"Nay,  I  do  not  need  thy  sword, 
Comrade  mine,"  said  Ury's  lord ; 

"  Put  it  up  I  pray  thee : 
Passive  to  His  holy  will, 
Trust  I  in  my  Master  still, 

Even  though  He  slay  me. 

"  Pledges  of  thy  love  and  faith, 
Proved  on  many  a  field  of  death, 

Not  by  me  are  needed.11 
Marvelled  much  that  henchman  bold? 
That  his  laird,  so  stout  of  old, 

Now  so  meekly  pleaded. 

"  Woe's  the  day,11  he  sadly  said, 
With  a  slowly  shaking  head, 
And  a  look  of  pity ; 


2  74  MISCELLANE  O  US. 

"  Ury's  honest  lord  reviled, 
Mock  of  knave  and  sport  of  child, 
In  his  own  good  city! 

"  Speak  the  word,  and,  master  mine, 
As  we  charged  on  Tilly's  line, 

And  his  Walloon  lancers, 
Smiting  through  their  midst  we'll  teach 
Civil  look  and  decent  speech 

To  these  boyish  prancers !  " 

"  Marvel  not,  mine  ancient  friend, 
Like  beginning,  like  the  end  :  " 

Quoth  the  Laird  of  Ury, 
"  Is  the  sinful  servant  more 
Than  his  gracious  Lord  who  bore 

Bonds  and  stripes  in  Jewry? 

"  Give  me  joy  that  in  His  name 
I  can  bear,  with  patient  frame, 

All  these  vain  ones  offer ; 
While  for  them  He  suffereth  long, 
Shall  I  answer  wrong  with  wrong, 

Scoffing  with  the  scoffer? 

"Happier  I,  with  loss  of  all, 
Hunted,  outlawed,  held  in  thrall, 

With  few  friends  to  greet  me, 
Than  when  reeve  and  squire  were  seen, 
Riding  out  from  Aberdeen, 

With  bared  heads,  to  meet  me. 


BARCLAY  OF  L'A'Y.  2?$ 

"  When  each  good  wife,  o'er  and  o'er, 
Blessed  me  as  I  passed  her  door ; 

And  the  snooded  daughter. 
Through  her  casement  glancing  down. 
Smiled  on  him  who  bore  renown 

From  red  fields  of  slaughter. 

«  1  lard  to  feel  the  stranger's  scoff, 
Hard  the  old  friend's  falling  off, 

Hard  to  learn  forgiving : 
Hut  the  Lord  His  own  rewards, 
And  His  love  with  theirs  accords, 

Warm  and  fresh  and  living. 

"Through  this  dark  and  stormy  night 
Faith  beholds  a  feeble  light 

Up  the  blackness  streaking ; 
Knowing  God's  own  time  is  best, 
In  a  patient  hope  I  rest 

For  the  full  day-breaking!  " 

So  the  Laird  of  Ury  said, 
Turning  slow  his  horse's  head 

Towards  the  Tolbooth  prison. 
Where,  through  iron  grates,  he  heard 
Poor  disciples  of  the  Word 

Preach  of  Christ  arisen! 

Not  in  vain.  Confessor  old, 
Unto  us  the  tale  is  told 
Of  thy  day  of  trial ; 


2/6  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Every  age  on  him.  who  strays 
From  its  broad  and  beaten  ways, 
Pours  its  seven-fold  vial. 

Happy  he  whose  inward  ear 
Angel  comfortings  can  hear, 

O'er  the  rabble's  laughter ; 
And,  while  Hatred's  fagots  burn, 
Glimpses  through  the  smoke  discern 

Of  the  good  hereafter. 

Knowing  this,  that  never  yet 
Share  of  Truth  was  vainly  set 

In  the  world's  wide  fallow ; 
After  hands  shall  sow  the  seed, 
After  hands  from  hill  and  mead 

Reap  the  harvests  yellow. 

Thus,  with  somewhat  of  the  Seer, 
Must  the  moral  pioneer 

From  ,the  Future  borrow  ; 
Clothe  the  waste  with  dreams  of  grain, 
And,  on  midnight's  sky  of  rain, 

Paint  the  golden  morrow! 
1847. 


WHAT   THE   VOICE   SAID. 

MADDENED  by  Earth's  wrong  and  evil, 

"  Lord ! "  I  cried  in  sudden  ire, 
"  From  thy  right  hand,  clothed  with  thunder, 

Shake  the  bolted  fire ! 


IT/fAT    THE    R  >/(•/•    SAID.  2JJ 

"Love  is  lost,  and  Faith  is  dying; 

With  the  brute  the  man  is  sold ; 
And  the  dropping  blood  of  labor 

Hardens  into  gold. 

"  Here  the  dying  wail  of  Famine, 

There  the  battle's  groan  of  pain  ; 
And,  in  silence,  smooth-faced  Mammon 

Reaping  men  like  grain. 

"'Where  is  God,  that  \ve  should  fear  Him?1 

Thus  the  earth-born  Titans  say  ; 
'  God !  if  thou  art  living,  hear  us ! ' 

Thus  the  weak  ones  pray. 

"Thou,  the  patient  Heaven  upbraiding,11 

Spake  a  solemn  Voice  within  ; 
"  Weary  of  our  Lord's  forbearance, 

Art  thou  free  from  sin  ? 

"  Fearless  brow  to  Him  uplifting, 

Canst  thou  for  His  thunders  call, 
Knowing  that  to  guilt's  attraction 

i:\crmore  they  fall? 

"  Know'st  thou  not  all  germs  of  evil 

In  thy  heart  await  their  time? 
Not  thyself,  but  God's  restraining, 

Stays  their  growth  of  crime. 

"Could'st  thou  boast,  oh  child  of  weakness! 

O'er  the  sons  of  wrong  and  strife, 
Were  their  strong  temptations  planted 

In  thy  path  of  life? 


2/8  MISCELLANEOUS. 

"  Thou  hast  seen  two  streamlets  gushing 
From  one  fountain,  clear  and  free, 

But  by  widely  varying  channels 
Searching  for  the  sea. 

"  Glideth  one  through  greenest  valleys. 
Kissing  them  with  lips  still  sweet ; 

One,  mad  roaring  down  the  mountains? 
Stagnates  at  their  feet. 

"  Is  it  choice  whereby  the  Parsee 
Kneels  before  his  mothers  fire? 

In  his  black  tent  did  the  Tartar 
Choose  his  wondering  sire? 

"  He  alone,  whose  hand  is  bounding 
Human  power  and  human  will, 

Looking  through  each  soul's  surrounding, 
Knows  its  good  or  ill. 

"  For  thyself,  while  wrong  and  sorrow 
Make  to  thee  their  strong  appeal, 

Coward  wert  thou  not  to  utter 
What  the  heart  must  feel. 

"Earnest  words  must  needs  be  spoken 
When  the  warm  heart  bleeds  or  burns 

With  its  scorn  of  wrong,  or  pity 
For  the  wronged,  by  turns. 

"  But,  by  all  thy  nature's  weakness, 
Hidden  faults  and  follies  known, 

Be  thou,  in  rebuking  evil, 
Conscious  of  thine  own. 


TO  DELAWARE*  2/0 

"Not  the  less  shall  stern-eyed  Duty 

To  thy  lips  her  trumpet  set, 
But  \\ith  harsher  blasts  shall  mingle 

\\  ailings  of  regret." 

Cease  not,  Voice  of  holy  speaking, 
Teacher  sent  of  ( '.od.  he  near. 

Whispering  through  the  day's  cool  silence, 
Let  my  spirit  hear! 

So,  when  thoughts  of  evil  doers 
Waken  scorn  or  hatred  move, 

Shall  a  mournful  fellow-feeling 
Temper  all  with  love. 

1847. 


TO   DELAWARE. 

Written  during  the  Discussion,  in  the  Legislature  of  that 
State  in  the  Winter  of  1846-47,  of  a  Bill  for  the  Abolition  of 
Slavery. 

THRICE  welcome  to  thy  sisters  of  the  East, 

To  the  strong  tillers  of  a  rugged  home, 
With  spray-wet  locks  to  Northern  winds  released, 

And  hardy  feet  o'er-swept  by  ocean's  foam  ; 
And  to  the  young  nymphs  of  the  golden  West, 

Whose  harvest  mantles,  fringed  with  prairie  bloom. 
Trail  in  the  sunset,  —  oh,  redeemed  and  blest, 

To  the  warm  welcome  of  thy  sisters  come! 
Broad  Pennsylvania,  down  her  sail-white  bay 


2  80  MISCELLANE  O  US. 

Shall  give  thee  joy,  and  Jersey  from  her  plains, 
And  the  great  lakes,  where  echoes  free  alway 

Moaned  never  shoreward  with  the  clank  of  chains, 
Shall  weave  new  sun-bows  in  their  tossing  spray, 
And  all  their  waves  keep  grateful  holiday. 
And,  smiling  on  thee  through  her  mountain  rains, 

Vermont  shall  bless  thee ;  and  the  Granite  peaks, 
And  vast  Katahdin  o'er  his  woods,  shall  wear 
Their  snow-crowns  brighter  in  the  cold  keen  air ; 

And  Massachusetts,  with  her  rugged  cheeks 
O'errun  with  grateful  tears,  shall  turn  to  thee, 

When,  at  thy  bidding,  the  electric  wire 

Shall  tremble  northward  with  its  words  of  fire : 
Glory  and  praise  to  God!  another  State  is  free! 

1847. 


WORSHIP. 

[  "  Pure  religion  and  undenled  before  God  and  the  Father 
is  this,  To  visit  the  fatherless  and  widows  in  their  affliction, 
and  to  keep  himself  unspotted  from  the  world."  —  James  i.  27.] 

THE  Pagan's  myths  through  marble  lips  are  spoken, 
And  ghosts  of  old  Beliefs  still  flit  and  moan 

Round  fane  and  altar  overthrown  and  broken, 
O'er  tree-grown  barrow  and  gray  ring  of  stone. 

Blind  Faith  had  martyrs  in  those  old  high  places. 

The  Syrian  hill  grove  and  the  Druid's  wood, 
With  mothers1  offering,  to  the  Fiend's  embraces, 

Bone  of  their  bone,  and  blood  of  their  own  blood. 


//•(Vv'.S  y///'.  28l 

Red  altars,  kindling  through  that  ni^ht  of  error. 
Smoked  with  warm  blood  beneath  the  rruel  e\e 

Of  lawlf»  l'o\\er  and  sanguinary  Terror, 
Throned  on  the  circle  of  a  pitiless  sky; 

Beneath  whose  baleful  shadow,  overcasting 
All  hea\en  above,  and  blighting  earth  below, 

The  scourge  grew  red,  the  lip  grew  pale  with  fasting, 
And  man's  oblation  was  his  fear  and  woe! 

Then    through    great    temples    swelled    the    dismal 
moaning 

Of  dirge-like  music  and  sepulchral  prayer : 
Pale  wi/.ard  priests,  o'er  occult  symbols  droning, 

Swung  their  white  censers  in  the  burdened  air: 

As  if  the  pomp  of  rituals,  and  the  savor 

Of  gums  and  spices,  could  the  Unseen  One  please; 
As  it  His  ear  could  bend,  with  childish  favor, 

To  the  poor  flattery  of  the  organ  keys! 

Feet  red  from  war  fields  trod  the  church  aisles  holy, 
With    trembling   reverence;     and    the   oppressor 
there, 

Kneeling  before  his  priest,  abased  and  lowly, 
Crushed  human  hearts  beneath  his  knee  of  prayer. 

Not  such  the  sen-ice  the  benignant  Father 
Requireth  at  His  earthly  children's  hands : 

Not  the  poor  offering  of  vain  rites,  but  rather 
The  simple  duty  man  from  man  demands. 


282  MISCELLANEOUS. 

For  Earth  he  asks  it :  the  full  joy  of  Heaven 
Knoweth  no  change  of  waning  or  increase ; 

The  great  heart  of  the  Infinite  beats  even, 
Untroubled  flows  the  river  of  His  peace. 

He  asks  no  taper  lights,  on  high  surrounding 
The  priestly  altar  and  the  saintly  grave, 

No  dolorous  chant  nor  organ  music  sounding, 
Nor  incense  clouding  up  the  twilight  nave. 

For  he  whom  Jesus  loved  hath  truly  spoken  : 
The  holier  worship  which  he  deigns  to  bless 

Restores  the  lost,  and  binds  the  spirit  broken, 
And  feeds  the  widow  and  the  fatherless ! 


Types  of  our  human  weakness  and  our  sorrow ! 

Who  lives  unhaunted  by  his  loved  ones  dead? 
Who,  with  vain  longing,  seeketh  not  to  borrow 

From  stranger  eyes  the  home  lights  which   have 
fled? 

Oh,  brother  man !  fold  to  thy  heart  thy  brother ; 

Where  pity  dwells,  the  peace  of  God  is  there  ; 
To  worship  rightly  is  to  love  each  other, 

Each  smile  a  hymn,  each  kindly  deed  a  prayer. 

Follow  with  reverent  steps  the  great  example 
Of  Him  whose  holy  work  was  "  doing  good  "  ; 

So  shall  the  wide  earth  seem  our  Father's  temple, 
Each  loving  life  a  psalm  of  gratitude. 


THE  ALBUM.  283 

Then  shall  all  shackles  fall ;  the  stormy  clangor 
Of  wild  war  music  o'er  the  earth  shall  cease  ; 

Love  .shall  tread  out  the  baleful  fire  of  anger, 
And  in  its  ashes  plant  the  tree  of  peace! 


THE  ALBUM. 

THE  dark-eyed  daughters  of  the  Sun, 
At  morn  and  evening  hours, 

O'er-hung  their  graceful  shrines  alone 
With  wreaths  of  dewy  flowers. 

Not  vainly  did  those  fair  ones  cull 
Their  gifts  by  stream  and  wood ; 

The  Good  is  always  beautiful, 
The  Beautiful  is  good! 

We  live  not  in  their  simple  day, 

Our  Northern  blood  is  cold, 
And  few  the  offerings  which  we  lay 

On  other  shrines  than  Gold. 

With  Scripture  texts  to  chill  and  ban 
The  heart's  fresh  morning  hours, 

The  heavy-footed  Puritan 

Goes  trampling  down  the  flowers ; 

Nor  thinks  of  Him  who  sat  of  old 

Where  Syrian  lilies  grew. 
And  from  their  mingling  shade  and  gold 

A  holy  lesson  drew. 


2  84  MfSCELLANE  0  US. 

Yet  lady,  shall  this  book  of  thine, 
Where  Love  his  gifts  has  brought, 

Become  to  thee  a  Persian  shrine, 
O'er-hung  with  flowers  of  thought. 


THE    DEMON   OF   THE    STUDY. 

THE  Brownie  sits  in  the  Scotchman's  room, 
And  eats  his  meat  and  drinks  his  ale. 

And  beats  the  maid  with  her  unused  broom, 
And  the  lazy  lout  with  his  idle  flail, 

But  he  sweeps  the  floor  and  threshes  the  corn, 

And  hies  him  away  ere  the  break  of  dawn. 

The  shade  of  Denmark  fled  from  the  sun, 

And  the  Cocklane  ghost  from  the  barn-loft  cheer, 

The  Fiend  of  Faust  was  a  faithful  one, 
Agrippa's  demon  wrought  in  fear, 

And  the  devil  of  Martin  Luther  sat 

By  the  stout  monk's  side  in  social  chat. 

The  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  on  the  neck  of  him 

Who  seven  times  crossed  the  deep, 
Twined  closely  each  lean  and  withered  limb, 

Like  the  nightmare  in  one's  sleep. 
But  he  drank  of  the  wine,  and  Sinbad  cast 
The  evil  weight  from  his  back  at  last. 

But  the  demon  that  cometh  day  by  day 
To  my  quiet  room  and  fire-side  nook, 
Where  the  casement  light  falls  dim  and  gray 


THE   nr.MOX   OF   THE   STUDY.        285 

On  faded  painting  and  ancient  hook, 
U  .1  -Norrier  one  than  any  whose  names 
An-  ihionieled  well  l>y  good  king  James. 

No  bearer  of  burdens  like  Caliban. 

No  runner  of  errands  like  Ariel, 
He  conies  in  the  shape  of  a  fat  old  man, 

Without  rap  of  knuckle  or  pull  of  bell : 
And  whence  he  conies,  or  whither  he  goes, 
I  know  as  I  do  of  the  wind  which  blows. 

A  stout  old  man  with  a  greasy  hat 

Slouched  heavily  down  to  his  dark,  red  nose, 
And  two  gray  eyes  enveloped  in  fat, 

Looking  through  glasses  with  iron  bows 
Read  ye,  and  heed  ye,  and  ye  who  can, 
Guard  well  your  doors  from  that  old  man! 

He  comes  with  a  careless  "  how  d'ye  do," 
And  seats  himself  in  my  elbow  chair; 

And  my  morning  paper  and  pamphlet  new 
Fall  forthwith  under  his  special  care, 

And  he  wipes  his  glasses  and  clears  his  throat, 

And,  button  by  button,  unfolds  his  coat. 

And  then  he  reads  from  paper  and  book, 

In  a  low  and  husky  asthmatic  tone, 
With  the  stolid  sameness  of  posture  and  look 

Of  one  who  reads  to  himself  alone  ; 
And  hour  after  hour  on  my  senses  come 
That  husky  wheeze  and  that  dolorous  hum. 


286  MISCELLANEOUS. 

The  price  of  stocks,  the  auction  sales, 
The  poet's  song  and  the  lover's  glee, 

The  horrible  murders,  the  seaboard  gales, 
The  marriage  list,  and  thejeu  d'esprit, 

All  reach  my  ear  in  the  self-same  tone,  — 

I  shudder  at  each,  but  the  fiend  reads  on! 

Oh!  sweet  as  the  lapse  of  water  av  noon 
O'er  the  mossy  roots  of  some  forest  tree, 

The  sigh  of  the  wind  in  the  woods  of  June, 
Or  sound  of  flutes  o'er  a  moonlit  sea, 

Or  the  low  soft  music,  perchance  which  seems 

To  float  through  the  slumbering  singer's  dreams. 

So  sweet,  so  dear  is  the  silvery  tone 

Of  her  in  whose  features  I  sometimes  look, 

As  I  sit  at  eve  by  her  side  alone, 

And  we  read  by  turns  from  the  self-same  book  — 

Some  tale  perhaps  of  the  olden  time, 

Some  lovers  romance  or  quaint  old  rhyme. 

Then  when  the  story  is  one  of  woe,  — 

Some  prisoner's  plaint  through  his  dungeon-bar, 

Her  blue  eye  glistens  with  tears,  and  low 
Her  voice  sinks  down  like  a  moan  afar; 

And  I  seem  to  hear  that  prisoner's  wail, 

And  his  face  looks  on  me  worn  and  pale. 

And  when  she  reads  some  merrier  song, 

Her  voice  is  glad  as  an  April  bird's, 
And  when  the  tale  is  of  war  and  wrong, 


THE  DEMON  OF   THE  STUDY.        287 

A  trumpet's  summons  is  in  her  words, 
And  the  rush  of  the  hosts  I  seem  to  hear. 
And  see  the  tossing  of  plume  and  spear!  — 

Oh.  pity  me  then,  -vhen,  day  by  day, 

The  stout  fiend  darkens  my  parlor  door ; 

And  reads  me  perchance  the  self-same  lay 
Which  melted  in  music  the  night  before, 

From  lips  as  the  lips  of  Hylas  sweet, 

And  moved  like  twin  roses  which  zephyrs  meet! 

I  cross  my  floor  with  a  nervous  tread, 
I  whistle  and  laugh  and  sing  and  shout, 

I  flourish  my  cane  above  his  head, 
And  stir  up  the  fire  to  roast  him  out ; 

I  topple  the  chairs,  and  drum  on  the  pane, 

And  press  my  hands  on  my  ears,  in  vain! 

I've  studied  Glanville  and  James  the  wise, 
And  wizard  black-letter  tomes  which  treat 

Of  demons  of  every  name  and  size, 

Which  a  Christian  man  is  presumed  to  meet. 

But  never  a  hint  and  never  a  line 

Can  I  find  of  a  reading  fiend  like  mine. 

I've  crossed  the  Psalter  with  Brady  and  Tate., 
And  laid  the  Primer  above  them  all, 

I've  nailed  a  horse-shoe  over  the  grate, 
And  hung  a  wig  to  my  parlor  wall 

Once  worn  by  a  learned  Judge,  they  say, 

At  Salem  court  in  the  witchcraft  day  ! 


288  MISCELLANEOUS, 

u  Conjuro  te,  sceleratissime, 

Abire  ad  tuum  locum ! "  —  still 
Like  a  visible  nightmare  he  sits  by  me  — 

The  exorcism  has  lost  its  skill ; 
And  I  hear  again  in  my  haunted  room 
The  husky  wheeze  and  the  dolorous  hum  ! 

Ah !  —  commend  me  to  Mary  Magdalen 

With  her  seven-fold   plagues  —  to   the   wandering 

Jew, 
To  the  terrors  which  haunted  Orestes  when 

The  furies  his  midnight  curtains  drew, 
But  charm  him  off,  ye  who  charm  him  can, 
That  reading  demon,  that  fat  old  man  ! 

1835- 


THE   PUMPKIN. 

OH  !  greenly  and  fair  in  the  lands  of  the  sun, 
The  vines  of  the  gourd  and  the  rich  melon  run, 
And  the  rock  and  the  tree  and  the  cottage  enfold, 
With  broad  leaves  all   greenness  and   blossoms   all 

gold, 

Like  that  which  o'er  Nineveh's  prophet  once  grew, 
While  he  waited  to  know  that  his  warning  was  true, 
And  longed  for  the  storm-cloud,  and  listened  in  vain 
For  the  rush  of  the  whirlwind  and  red  fire-rain. 

On  the  banks  of  the  Xenil  the  dark   Spanish  maiden 
Comes  up  with  the  fruit  of  the  tangled  vine  laden ; 


Tin-:  rr.MrxrN.  289 

And  the  Creole  of  Cuba  laughs  out  to  behold 
Through  orange-leaves  shining  the  broad  spheres  of 

gold; 

Yet  with  dearer  delight  from  his  home  in  the  North. 
On  the  fields  of  his  harvest  the  Yankee  looks  forth. 
Where  crook-necks  are  coiling  and  yellow  fruit 

shines, 
And  the  sun  of  September  melts  down  on  his  vines. 

Ah  !  —  on   Thanksgiving  Day,  from  East  and  from 

West, 
From  North  and  from  South  come  the  pilgrim  and 

guest, 
When  the  gray -haired   New  Englander  sees   round 

his  board 

The  old  broken  links  of  affection  restored, 
When  the  care-wearied  man  seeks  his  mother  once 

more. 
And  the  worn  matron  smiles  where  the  girl  smiled 

before. 

What  moistens  the  lip  and  what  brightens  the  eye  ? 
What  calls  back  the  past,  like  the  rich  Pumpkin  pie  ? 

Oh  !  —  fruit  loved  of  boyhood  !  —  the  old  days  re 
calling, 

When  wood-grapes  were  purpling  and  brown  nuts 
were  falling  ! 

When  wild,  ugly  faces  we  carved  in  its  skin, 

Glaring  out  through  the  dark  with  a  candle  within  ! 

When  we  laughed  round  the  corn-heap,  with  hearts 
all  in  tune, 

Our  chair  a  broad  pumpkin  —  our  lantern  the  moon, 


MISCELLANE  O  US. 


Telling  tales  of  the  fairy  who  travelled  like  steam, 
In   a  pumpkin-shell-coach,   with   two    rats    for   her 
team  ! 

Then   thanks    for   thy   present  !  —  none    sweeter   or 

better 

E'er  smoked  from  an  oven  or  circled  a  platter  ! 
Fairer  hands  never  wrought  at  a  pastry  more  fine, 
Brighter  t  eyes  never  watched    o'er   its    baking   than 

thine  ! 
And  the  prayer,  which  my  mouth  is  too  full  to  ex 

press. 

Swells  my  heart  that  thy  shadow  may  never  be  less  ; 
That  the  days  of  thy  lot  may  be  lengthened  below, 
And   the   fame    of  thy   worth    like   a   pumpkin-vine 

grow, 

And  thy  life  be  as  sweet,  and  its  last  sunset  sky 
Golden-tinted  and  fair  as  thy  own  Pumpkin  Pie  ! 
1844. 


EXTRACT   FROM   «  A  NEW   ENGLAND 
LEGEND." 

How  has  New  England's  romance  fled, 
Even  as  a  vision  of  the  morning  ! 

Its  rights  foredone  —  its  guardians  dead  — 

Its  priestesses,  bereft  of  dread, 

Waking  the  veriest  urchin's  scorning  !  -  — 

Gone  like  the  Indian  wizard's  yell 
And  fire-dance  round  the  magic  rock, 


EXTRACT.  291 

Forgotten  like  the  Druid's  spell 

At  moonrise  by  his  holy  oak  ! 
No  more  along  the  shadowy  glen, 
Glide  the  dim  ghosts  of  murdered  men  ; 
No  more  the  unquiet  church-yard  dead 
dlimpse  upward  from  their  turfy  bed, 

Startling  the  traveller,  late  and  lone; 
As,  on  some  night  of  starless  weather, 
They  silently  commune  together, 

Kach  sitting  on  his  own  head-stone  ! 
The  rootless  house,  decayed,  deserted, 
Its  living  tenants  all  departed, 
No  longer  rings  with  midnight  revel 
Of  witch,  or  ghost,  or  goblin  evil : 
No  pale,  blue  flame  sends  out  its  flashes 
Through  creviced  roof  and  shattered  sashes  !  — 
The  witch-grass  round  the  hazel  spring 
May  sharply  to  the  night-air  sing, 
But  there  no  more  shall  withered  hags 
Refresh  at  ease  their  broom-stick  nags, 
Or  taste  those  hazel-shadowed  waters 
As  beverage  meet  for  Satan's  daughters ; 
No  more  their  mimic  tones  be  heard  — 
The  mew  of  cat  —  the  chirp  of  bird, 
Shrill  blending  with  the  hoarser  laughter 
Of  the  fell  demon  following  after ! 

The  cautious  good-man  nails  no  more 
A  horse-shoe  on  his  outer  door, 
Lest  some  unseemly  hag  should  fit 
To  his  own  mouth  her  bridle-bit  — 
The  good-wife's  churn  no  more  refuses 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

Its  wonted  culinary  uses 

Until,  with  heated  needle  burned, 

The  witch  has  to  her  place  returned  ! 

Our  witches  are  no  longer  old 

And  wrinkled  beldames,  Satan-sold, 

But  young  and  gay  and  laughing  creatures, 

With  the  heart's  sunshine  on  their  features 

Their  sorcery  —  the  light  which  dances 

Where  the  raised  lid  unveils  its  glances ; 

Or  that  low-breathed  and  gentle  tone, 

The  music  of  Love's  twilight  hours, 
Soft,  dream-like,  as  a  fairy's  moan 

Above  her  nightly  closing  flowers, 
Sweeter  than  that  which  sighed  of  yore, 
Along  the  charmed  Ausonian  shore ! 
Even  she,  our  own  weird  heroine, 
Sole  Pythoness  of  ancient  Lynn, 

Sleeps  calmly  where  the  living  laid  her ; 
And  the  wide  realm  of  sorcery, 
Left  by  its  latest  mistress  free, 

Hath  found  no  gray  and  skilled  invaders 
So  perished  Albion's  "  glammaryc," 

With  him  in  Melrose  Abbey  sleeping, 
His  charmed  torch  beside  his  knee, 
That  even  the  dead  himself  might  see 

The  magic  scroll  within  his  keeping. 
And  now  our  modern  Yankee  sees 
Nor  omens,  spells,  nor  mysteries  ; 
And  naught  above,  below,  around, 
Of  life  or  death,  of  sight  or  sound, 

Whatever  its  nature,  form,  or  look, 
Excites  his  terror  or  surprise  — 


//,/.w yv.v  RF.AC/f.  293 

All  seeming  to  his  knowing  < 
Familiar  as  his  ••  catechise." 
Or  ••  Webster's  Spelling  Book." 

1833.  _^_ 

HAMPTON    lU.ACH. 

THE  sunlight  glitters  keen  and  bright 

Where,  miles  a\\a\. 
Lies  stretching  to  my  dazzled  sight 
A  luminous  belt,  a  misty  light. 

Beyond  the  dark   pine  bluffs  and  wastes  of  sandy 
gray. 

The  tremulous  shadow  of  the  Sea! 

Against  its  ground 
Of  silvery  light,  rock.  hill,  and  tree. 
Still  as  a  picture,  clear  and  free. 

With    varying   outline    mark    the    coast    for    miles 
around. 

On  —  on  —  we  tread  iivith  loose-flung  rein 

Our  seaward  way. 

Through  dark-green  fields  and  blossoming  grain. 
Where  the  wild  brier-rose  skirts  the  lane, 
And   bends   above   our  heads   the  flowering  locust 
spray. 

Ha!  like  a  kind  hand  on  my  brow 
Comes  this  fresh  breeze. 
Cooling  its  dull  and  feverish  glow. 
While  through  my  being  seems  to  How 
The  breath  of  a  new  lik-  —  the  healing  of  the  seas! 


294  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Now  rest  we,  where  this  grassy  mound 

His  feet  hath  set 

In  the  great  waters,  which  have  bound 
His  granite  ankles  greenly  round 
With  long  and  tangled  moss,  and  weeds  with  cool 
spray  wet. 

Good-by  to  Pain  and  Care !     I  take 

Mine  ease  to-day ; 

Here  where  these  sunny  waters  break., 
And  ripples  this  keen  breeze,  I  shake 
All  burdens  from  the  heart,  all  weary  thoughts  away. 

I  draw  a  freer  breath  —  I  seem 

Like  all  I  see  — 

Waves  in  the  sun  —  the  white-winged  gleam 
Of  sea-birds  in  the  slanting  beam  — 
And  far-off  sails  which  flit  before  the  South-wind 
free. 

So  when  Time's  veil  shall  fall  asunder, 

The  soul  may  know 
No  fearful  change,  nor  sudden  wonder, 
Nor  sink  the  weight  of  mystery  under, 
But  with    the  upward   rise,   and    with    the  vastness 
grow. 

And  all  we  shrink  from  now  may  seem 

No  new  revealing  ; 
Familiar  as  our  childhood's  stream 
Or  pleasant  memory  of  a  dream, 

The  loved    and   cherished    Past   upon   the  new   life 
stealing. 


HAMPTON  BEACH.  295 

Serene  and  mild  the  untried  light 

May  have  its  dawning  ; 
And,  as  in  Summer's  northern  night 
Tlu-  evening  and  the  dawn  unite, 
The  sunset  hues  of  Time  blend  with  the  soul's  new 
morning. 

I  sit  alone  :  in  foam  and  spray 

Wave  after  wave 

Breaks  on  the  rocks  which,  stern  and  gray, 
Beneath  like  fallen  Titans  lay, 

Or  murmurs  hoarse  and  strong  through  mossy  cleft 
and  cave. 

What  heed  I  of  the  dusty  land 

And  noisy  town  ? 
I  see  the  mighty  deep  expand 
From  its  white  line  of  glimmering  sand 
To  where  the  blue  of  heaven  on  bluer  waves  shuts 
down! 

In  listless  quietude  of  mind, 

I  yield  to  all 

The  change  of  cloud  and  wave  and  wind, 
And  passive  on  the  flood  reclined, 
I  wander  with  the  waves,  and  with  them  rise  and 
fall. 

But  look,  thou  dreamer!  —  wave  and  shore 

In  shadow  lie ; 

The  night-wind  warns  me  back  once  more 
To  where  my  native  hill-tops  o'er 
Bends  like  an  arch  of  lire  the  glowing  sunset  sky! 


296  MISCELLANEOUS. 

So  then,  beach,  bluff,  and  wave,  farewell! 

I  bear  with  me 

No  token  stone  nor  glittering  shell, 
But  long  and  oft  shall  Memory  tell 
Of  this  brief  thoughtful  hour  of  musing  by  the  Sea 

1843- 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON  HEARING  OF  THE  DEATH  OF  SILAS  WRIGHT, 
OF  NEW  YORK. 

As  they  who,  tossing  midst  the  storm  at  night, 
While  turning  shoreward,  where  a  beacon  shone, 
Meet  the  walled  blackness  of  the  heaven  alone, 

So,  on  the  turbulent  waves  of  party  tossed, 

In  gloom  and  tempest,  men  have  seen  thy  light 
Quenched  in  the  darkness.     At  thy  hour  of  noon, 

While  life  was  pleasant  to  thy  undimmed  sight, 

And,  day  by  day,  within  thy  spirit  grew 

A  holier  hope  than  young  Ambition  knew, 

As  through  thy  rural  quiet,  not  in  vain, 

Pierced  the  sharp  thrill  of  Freedom's  cry  of  pain, 
Man  of  the  millions,  thou  art  lost  too  soon! 

Portents  at  which  the  bravest  stand  aghast  — 

The  birth-throes  of  a  Future,  strange  and  vast, 
Alarm  the  land ;  yet  thou,  so  wise  and  strong, 

Suddenly  summoned  to  the  burial  bed, 

Lapped  in  its  slumbers  deep  and  ever  long, 

Hear'st  not  the  tumult  surging  overhead. 

Who  now  shall  rally  Freedom's  scattering  host? 

Who  wear  the  mantle  of  the  leader  lost  ? 


LINES.  297 

Who  stay  the  march  of  slavery  ?     He,  whose  voice 
Hath  called  thee  from  thy  task-field,  shall  not  lack 
Yet  bolder  champions,  to  beat  bravely  back 
The  wrong  which,  through  His  poor  ones,  reaches 

Him  : 
Yet  firmer  hands  shall  Freedom's  torch-lights  trim. 

And  wave  them  high  across  the  abysmal  black, 
Till  bound,  dumb  millions  there  shall  see  them  and 
rejoice. 

\oth  »io.,  1847. 


LINES, 
ACCOMPANYING  MAM  s( -RUTS  PRESENTED  TO  A  FRIEND. 

'T  is  said  that  in  the  Holy  Land 

The  angels  of  the  place  have  blessed 

The  pilgrim's  bed  of  desert  sand, 
Like  Jacob's  stone  of  rest. 

That  down  the  hush  of  Syrian  skies 

Some  sweet-voiced  saint  at  twilight  sings 

The  song  whose  holy  symphonies 
Are  beat  by  unseen  wings  ; 

Still  starting  from  his  sandy  bed, 

The  way-worn  wanderer  looks  to  see 

The  halo  of  an  angel's  head 

Shine  through  the  tamarisk  tree. 

So  through  the  shadows  of  my  way 
Thy  smile  hath  fallen  soft  and  clear, 


298  MISCELLANEOUS. 

So  at  the  weary  close  of  day 

Hath  seemed  thy  voice  of  cheer. 

That  pilgrim  pressing  to  his  goal 
May  pause  not  for  the  vision's  sake, 

Yet  all  fair  things  within  his  soul 
The  thought  of  it  shall  wake  ; 

The  graceful  palm  tree  by  the  well, 

Seen  on  the  far  horizon's  rim  ; 
The  dark  eyes  of  the  fleet  gazelle, 

Bent  timidly  on  him  ; 

Each  pictured  saint,  whose  golden  hair 

Streams  sunlike  through  the  convent's  gloom ; 

Pale  shrines  of  martyrs  young  and  fair, 
And  loving  Mary's  tomb  ; 

And  thus  each  tint  or  shade  which  falls 
From  sunset  cloud  or  waving  tree, 

Along  my  pilgrim  path  recalls 
The  pleasant  thought  of  thee. 

Of  one,  in  sun  and  shade  the  same, 
In  weal  and  woe  my  steady  friend, 

Whatever  by  that  holy  name 
The  angels  comprehend. 

Not  blind  to  faults  and  follies,  thou 
Hast  never  failed  the  good  to  see, 

Nor  judged  by  one  unseemly  bough 
The  upward-struggling  tree. 


LINES. 


299 


These  light  leaves  at  thy  feet  I  lay  — 

Poor  common  thoughts  on  common  tilings, 

Which  time  is  shaking,  day  by  day, 
Like  feathers  from  his  wings  — 

Chance  shootings  from  a  frail  life-tree, 
To  nurturing  care  but  little  known, 

Their  good  was  partly  learned  of  thee, 
Their  folly  is  my  own. 

That  tree  still  clasps  the  kindly  mould, 
Its  leaves  still  drink  the  twilight  dew, 

And  weaving  its  pale  green  with  gold, 
Still  shines  the  sunlight  through. 

There  still  the  morning  zephyrs  play. 

And  there  at  times  the  spring  bird  sings, 
And  mossy  trunk  and  fading  spray 

Are  flowered  with  glossy  wings. 

Yet,  even  in  genial  sun  and  rain. 

Root,  branch,  and  leaflet  fail  and  fade: 
The  wanderer  on  its  lonely  plain 

Ere  long  shall  miss  its  shade. 

Oh,  friend  beloved,  whose  curious  skill 

Keeps  bright  the  last  year's  leaves  and  flowers, 

With  warm,  glad  summer  thoughts  to  fill 
The  cold,  dark,  winter  hours! 

Pressed  on  my  heart,  the  leaves  I  bring 

May  well  defy  the  wintry  cold, 
Until,  in  Heaven's  eternal  spring, 

I.ik-'s  fairer  ones  unfold. 

1847- 


3<DO  MISCELLANEOUS, 


THE   REWARD. 

WHO,  looking  backward  from  his  manhood's  prime, 
Sees  not  the  spectre  of  his  misspent  time? 

And,  through  the  shade 
Of  funeral  cypress  planted  thick  behind, 
Hears  no  reproachful  whisper  on  the  wind 

From  his  loved  dead? 

Who  bears  no  trace  of  passion's  evil  force? 
Who  shuns  thy  sting,  oh  terrible  Remorse?  — 

Who  does  not  cast 

On  the  thronged  pages  of  his  memory's  book, 
At  times,  a  sad  and  half  reluctant  look, 

Regretful  of  the  Past? 

Alas!  —  the  evil  which  we  fain  would  shun 
We  do,  and  leave  the  wished-for  good  undone  : 

Our  strength  to-day 

Is  but  to-morrow's  weakness,  prone  to  fall ; 
Poor,  blind,  unprofitable  servants  all 

Are  we  alway. 

Yet,  who,  thus  looking  backward  o'er  his  years, 
Feels  not  his  eyelids  wet  with  grateful  tears, 

If  he  hath  been 

Permitted,  weak  and  sinful  as  he  was, 
To  cheer  and  aid,  in  some  ennobling  cause, 

His  fellow-men  ? 


RAPHAEL.  301 

If  he  hath  hidden  the  outcast,  or  let  in 
A  ray  of  .sunshine  to  the  cell  of  sin,  — 

If  lu-  hath  lent 

Strength  to  the  weak,  and,  in  an  hour  of  need, 
Over  the  suffering,  mindless  of  his  creed 

Or  home,  hath  bent, 

He  has  not  lived  in  vain,  and  while  he  gives 
The  praise  to  Him,  in  whom  he  moves  and  lives, 

With  thankful  heart : 

He  gazes  backward,  and  with  hope  before, 
Knowing  that  from  his  works  he  never  more 

Can  henceforth  part. 

1848. 


RAPHAEL.1 

I  SHALL  not  soon  forget  that  sight : 
The  glow  of  Autumn's  westering  day, 

A  hazy  warmth,  a  dreamy  light, 
On  Raphael's  picture  lay. 

It  was  a  simple  print  I  saw, 
The  fair  face  of  a  musing  boy  ; 

Yet  while  I  gazed  a  sense  of  awe 
Seemed  blending  with  my  joy. 


1  Suggested  by  a  portrait  of  Raphael,  at  the  age  of  fifteen, 
in  the  possession  of  Thomas  Tracy,  of  Newburyport. 


302  MISCELLANE  O  US. 

A  simple  print :  —  the  graceful  flow 
Of  boyhood's  soft  and  wavy  hair, 

And  fresh  young  lip  and  cheek,  and  brow 
Unmarked  and  clear,  were  there. 

Yet  through  its  sweet  and  calm  repose 
I  saw  the  inward  spirit  shine ; 

It  was  as  if  before  me  rose 
The  white  veil  of  a  shrine. 


As  if,  as  Gothland's  sage  has  told, 
The  hidden  life,  the  man  within, 

Dissevered  from  its  frame  and  mould, 
13y  mortal  eye  were  seen. 


Was  it  the  lifting  of  that  eye, 

The  waving  of  that  pictured  hand? 

Loose  as  a  cloud-wreath  on  the  sky, 
I  saw  the  walls  expand. 


The  narrow  room  had  vanished,  —  space 
Broad,  luminous,  remained  alone, 

Through  which  all  hues  and  shapes  of  grace 
And  beauty  looked  or  shone. 


Around  the  mighty  master  came 

The  marvels  which  his  pencil  wrought, 

Those  miracles  of  power  whose  fame 
Is  wide  as  human  thought. 


RAPHAEL.  303 

There  drooped  thy  more  than  mortal  face, 

Oh  Mother,  beautiful  and  mild! 
Enfolding  in  one  dear  embrace 

Thy  Saviour  and  Thy  Child! 

The  rapt  brow  of  the  Desert  John  ; 

The  awful  glory  of  that  day, 
When  all  the  Father's  brightness  shone 

Through  manhood's  veil  of  clay. 

And,  midst  gray  prophet  forms,  and  wild 

Dark  visions  of  the  days  of  old. 
How  sweetly  woman's  beauty  smiled 

Through  locks  of  brown  and  gold! 


There  Fornarina's  fair  young  face 
Once  more  upon  her  lover  shone, 

Whose  model  of  an  angel's  grace 
He  borrowed  from  her  own. 


Slow  passed  that  vision  from  my  view, 
But  not  the  lesson  which  it  taught ; 

The  soft,  calm  shadows  which  it  threw 
Still  rested  on  my  thought : 


The  truth,  that  painter,  bard,  and  sage, 
Even  in  Earth's  cold  and  changeful  clime, 

Plant  for  their  deathless  heritage 
The  fruits  and  flowers  of  time. 


304  MISCELLANEOUS. 

We  shape  ourselves  the  joy  or  fear 
Of  which  the  coming  life  is  made, 

And  fill  our  Future's  atmosphere 
With  sunshine  or  with  shade. 

The  tissue  of  the  Life  to  be 

We  weave  with  colors  all  our  own, 

And  in  the  field  of  Destiny 
We  reap  as  we  have  sown. 

Still  shall  the  soul  around  it  call 

The  shadows  which  it  gathered  here, 

And  painted  on  the  eternal  wall 
The  Past  shall  reappear. 

Think  ye  the  notes  of  holy  song 
On  Milton's  tuneful  ear  have  died? 

Think  ye  that  Raphael's  angel  throng 
Has  vanished  from  his  side? 

Oh  no!  —  We  live  our  life  again  : 
Or  warmly  touched  or  coldly  dim 

The  pictures  of  the  Past  remain, — 
Man's  works  shall  follow  him! 

1842. 


////-.   KNIGHT  Of-  ST.  JOHN.         305 


THE   KNIGHT   OF   ST.   JOHN. 

ERE  down  yon  blue  Carpathian  hills 

Tin-  sun  shall  sink  a^ain ! 
Faivwrll  t«>  liU-  and  all  its  ills, 

Fatvurll  to  cell  and  chain. 

These  prison  shades  arc  dark  and  cold,— 

But,  darker  far  than  they, 
The  shadow  of  a  sorrow  old 

Is  on  my  heart  alway. 

For  since  the  day  when  Warkworth  wood 

Closed  o'er  my  steed  and  I, 
An  alien  from  my  name  and  blood, 

A  weed  cast  out  to  die,  — 

When,  looking  back  in  sunset  light, 

I  saw  her  turret  gleam, 
And  from  its  casement,  far  and  white, 

Her  sign  of  farewell  stream. 

Like  one  who  from  some  desert  shore 
Doth  home's  green  isles  descry, 

And,  vainly  longing,  gazes  o'er 
The  waste  of  wave  and  sky ; 

So  trom  the  desert  of  my  fate 

I  gaze  across  the  past ; 
Forever  on  life's  dial-plate 

The  shade  is  backward  cast! 


306  MISCELLANEOUS. 

IVe  wandered  wide  from  shore  to  shore, 
I've  knelt  at  many  a  shrine  ; 

And  bowed  me  to  the  rocky  floor 
Where  Bethlehem's  tapers  shine  ; 


And  by  the  Holy  Sepulchre 

I've  pledged  my  knightly  sword 

To  Christ,  his  blessed  Church,  and  her,, 
The  Mother  of  our  Lord. 


Oh,  vain  the  vow,  and  vain  the  strife! 

How  vain  do  all  things  seem! 
My  soul  is  in  the  past,  and  life 

To-day  is  but  a  dream! 

In  vain  the  penance  strange  and  long, 
And  hard  for  flesh  to  bear; 

The  prayer,  the  fasting,  and  the  thong, 
And  sackcloth  shirt  of  hair. 


The  eyes  of  memory  will  not  sleep, 

Its  ears  are  open  still ; 
And  vigils  with  the  past  they  keep 

Against  my  feeble  will. 

And  still  the  loves  and  joys  of  old 

Do  evermore  uprise ; 
I  see  the  flow  of  locks  of  gold, 

The  shine  ©f  loving  eyes! 


THE  KXIGHT   01-   ST.  JOHN.          30? 

Ah  me!  upon  another's  breast 

Those  golden  locks  recline  ; 
I  see  upon  another  iv>t 

The  glance  that  oner  was  mine! 

"O  faithless  Priest!  — O  perjured  knight!" 

I  hear  the  Master  cry; 
"  Shut  out  the  vision  from  thy  sight, 

Let  Karth  and  Nature  die! 

"  The  Church  of  God  is  now  thy  spouse, 

And  thou  the  bridegroom  art ; 
Then  let  the  burden  of  thy  vows 

Crush  down  thy  human  heart!" 

In  vain!     This  heart  its  grief  must  know, 

Till  life  itself  hath  ceased, 
And  falls  beneath  the  self-same  blow, 

The  lover  and  the  priest! 

O  pitying  Mother  !  souls  of  light, 

And  saints,  and  martyrs  old  ! 
Pray  for  a  weak  and  sinful  knight, 

A  suffering  man  uphold. 

Then  let  the  Paynim  work  his  will, 

And  death  unbind  my  chain, 
Ere  down  yon  blue  Carpathian  hill 

The  sun  shall  fall  again. 

1843- 


308  MISCELLANE  0  US. 

AUTUMN   THOUGHTS. 

FROM  "  MARGARET  SMITH'S  JOURNAL." 

GONE  hath  the  Spring,  with  all  its  flowers, 
And  gone  the  Summer's  pomp  and  show, 

And  Autumn,  in  his  leafless  bowers, 
Is  waiting  for  the  Winter's  snow. 

I  said  to  Earth,  so  cold  and  gray, 
"  An  emblem  of  myself  thou  art :  " 

"  Not  so,11  the  Earth  did  seem  to  say, 

"For  Spring  shall  warm  my  frozen  heart." 

"  I  soothe  my  wintry  sleep  with  dreams 

Of  warmer  sun  and  softer  rain, 
And  wait  to  hear  the  sound  of  streams 

And  songs  of  merry  birds  again. 

"  But  thou,  from  whom  the  Spring  hath  gone, 
For  whom  the  flowers  no  longer  blow, 

Who  standest  blighted  and  forlorn. 
Like  Autumn  waiting  for  the  snow : 

"  No  hope  is  thine  of  sunnier  hours, 
Thy  Winter  shall  no  more  depart ; 

No  Spring  revive  thy  wasted  flowers, 

Nor  Summer  warm  thy  frozen  heart." 
1849. 


SONGS    OF    LABOR, 


DEDICATION. 

I  WOULD  the  gift  I  offer  here 

Might  graces  from  thy  favor  take. 
And,  seen  through  Friendship's  atmosphere, 
On  softened  lines  and  coloring,  wear 
The  unaccustomed  light  of  beauty,  for  thy  sake. 

Few  leaves  of  Fancy's  spring  remain  : 

Hut  what  I  have  I  give  to  thee,  — 
The  o'er-sunned  bloom  of  summer's  plain, 
And  paler  flowers,  the  latter  rain 
Calls  from  the  westering  slope  of  life's  autumnal  lea 

Above  the  fallen  groves  of  green, 

Where  youth's  enchanted  forest  stood, 
The  dry  and  wasting  roots  between, 
A  sober  after-growth  is  seen, 

As  springs  the  pine  where  falls  the  gay-leafed  maple 
wood  ! 

3°9 


3IO  SONGS  OF  LABOR. 

Yet  birds  will  sing,  and  breezes  play 

Their  leaf-harps  in  the  sombre  tree ; 
And  through  the  bleak  and  wintry  day 
It  keeps  its  steady  green  alway,— 
So  even  my   after-thoughts    may  have  a   charm   for 
thee 


Art's  perfect  forms  no  moral  need, 
And  beauty  is  its  own  excuse  ;  l 
But  for  the  dull  and  flowerless  weed 
Some  healing  virtue  still  must  plead, 
And  the  rough  ore  must  find  its  honors  in  its  use. 

So  haply  these,  my  simple  lays 

Of  homely  toil,  may  serve  to  show 
The  orchard  bloom  and  tasselled  maize 
That  skirt  and  gladden  duty's  ways, 
The  unsung  beauty  hid  life's  common  things  below  ! 


Haply  from  them  the  toiler,  bent 

Above  his  forge  or  plough,  may  gain 
A  manlier  spirit  of  content, 
And  feel  that  life  is  wisest  spent 
Where  the  strong  working  hand  makes   strong  the 
working  brain. 

1  For  the  idea  of  this  line,  I  am  indebted  to  Emerson,  in 
his  inimitable  sonnet  to  the  Rhodora :  — 

"  If  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 
Then  beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being." 


Till-:   SHir-BUILDERS.  3  I  I 

The  doom  which  to  the  guilty  pair 
Without  the  walls  of  Eden  came, 
Transforming  sinless  ease  to  care 
And  rugged  toil,  no  more  shall  bear 
The  burden  of  old  crime,  or  mark  of  primal  shame. 

A  blessing  now  —  a  curse  no  more  ; 

Since  He,  whose  name  we  breathe  with  awe, 
The  coarse  mechanic  vesture  wore,  — 
A  poor  man  toiling  with  the  poor, 
In  labor,  as  in  prayer,  fulfilling  the  same  law. 

1850. 

THE   SHIP-BUILDERS. 

THE  sky  is  ruddy  in  the  East, 

The  earth  is  gray  below, 
And,  spectral  in  the  river-mist, 

The  ship's  white  timbers  show. 
Then  let  the  sounds  of  measured  stroke 

And  grating  saw  begin  ; 
The  broad-axe  to  the  gnarled  oak, 

The  mallet  to  the  pin! 

Hark !  —  roars  the  bellows,  blast  on  blast; 

The  sooty  smithy  jars, 
And  fire-sparks,  rising  far  and  fast, 

Are  fading  with  the  stars. 
All  day  for  us  the  smith  shall  stand 

Beside  that  flashing  forge  ; 
All  day  for  us  his  heavy  hand 

The  groaning  anvil  scourge, 


312  SONGS   OF  LABOR, 

From  far-off  hills,  the  panting  team 

For  us  is  toiling  near ; 
For  us  the  raftsmen  down  the  stream 

Their  island  barges  steer. 
Rings  out  for  us  the  axe-man's  stroke 

In  forests  old  and  still,  — 
For  us  the  century-circled  oak 

Falls  crashing  down  his  hill. 

Up  —  up !  —  in  nobler  toil  than  ours 

No  craftsmen  bear  a  part : 
We  make  of  Nature's  giant  powers 

The  slaves  of  human  Art. 
Lay  rib  to  rib  and  beam  to  beam, 

And  drive  the  treenails  free  ; 
Nor  faithless  joint  nor  yawning  seam 

Shall  tempt  the  searching  sea! 

Where'er  the  keel  of  our  good  ship 

The  sea's  rough  field  shall  plough  — 
Where'er  her  tossing  spars  shall  drip 

With  salt-spray  caught  below  — 
That  ship  must  heed  her  master's  beck,, 

Her  helm  obey  his  hand, 
And  seamen  tread  her  reeling  deck 

As  if  they  trod  the  land. 

Her  oaken  ribs  the  vulture-beak 
Of  Northern  ice  may  peel ; 

The  sunken  rock  and  coral  peak 
May  grate  along  her  keel ; 


Till:     .S7///'-/»'r//./V-.A'.V.  313 

And  know  we  well  the  painted  shell 

We  give  to  wind  and  wave. 
Must  float,  the  sailor's  citadel, 

Or  sink,  the  sailor's  grave! 

Ho!  —  strike  away  the  bars  and  blocks, 

And  set  the  good  ship  free! 
Why  lingers  on  these  dusty  rocks 

The  young  bride  of  the  sea? 
Look!  how  she  moves  adown  the  grooves, 

In  graceful  beauty  now! 
How  lowly  on  the  breast  she  loves 

Sinks  down  her  virgin  prow! 

God  bless  her!  wheresoever  the  breeze 

Her  snowy  wing  shall  fan, 
Aside  the  frozen  Hebrides, 

Or  sultry  Hindostan! 
Where'er,  in  mart  or  on  the  main, 

With  peaceful  flag  unfurled, 
She  helps  to  wind  the  silken  chain 

Of  commerce  round  the  world! 

Speed  on  the  ship!—  But  let  her  bear 

No  merchandise  of  sin, 
No  groaning  cargo  of  despair 

Her  roomy  hold  within. 
No  Lethean  drug  for  Eastern  lands, 

Nor  poison-draught  for  ours  ; 
But  honest  fruits  of  toiling  hands 

And  Nature's  sun  and  showers. 


3 14  SONGS   OF  LABOR. 

Be  hers  the  Prairie's  golden  grain, 

The  Desert's  golden  sand, 
The  clustered  fruits  of  sunny  Spain, 

The  spice  of  Morning  land ! 
Her  pathway  on  the  open  main 

May  blessings  follow  free, 
And  glad  hearts  welcome  back  again 

Her  white  sails  from  the  sea! 

1846. 


THE    SHOEMAKERS. 

Ho!  workers  of  the  old  time  styled 

The  Gentle  Craft  of  Leather! 
Young  brothers  of  the  ancient  guild, 

Stand  forth  once  more  together! 
Call  out  again  your  long  array, 

In  the  olden  merry  manner! 
Once  more,  on  gay  St.  Crispin's  day, 

Fling  out  your  blazoned  banner! 

Rap,  rap!  upon  the  well-worn  stone 

How  falls  the  polished  hammer! 
Rap,  rap!  the  measured  sound  has  grown 

A  quick  and  merry  clamor. 
Now  shape  the  sole !  now  deftly  curl 

The  glossy  vamp  around  it, 
And  bless  the  while  the  bright-eyed  girl 

Whose  gentle  fingers  bound  it! 


THE    .s7/( )/-..!/,/ A'/- A'.V.  315 

For  you,  along  the  Spanish  main 

A  hundred  keels  are  ploughing ; 
For  you,  the  Indian  on  the  plain 

His  lasso-coil  is  throwing ; 
For  you,  deep  glens  with  hemlock  dark 

The  woodman's  fire  is  lighting ; 
For  you,  upon  the  oak's  gray  bark 

The  woodman's  axe  is  smiting. 

For  you,  from  Carolina's  pine 

The  rosin-gum  is  stealing ; 
For  you,  the  dark-eyed  Florentine 

Her  silken  skein  is  reeling ; 
For  you,  the  dizzy  goat-herd  roams 

His  rugged  Alpine  ledges ; 
For  you,  round  all  her  shepherd  homes, 

Bloom  England's  thorny  hedges. 

The  foremost  still,  by  day  or  night, 

On  moated  mound  or  heather, 
Where'er  the  need  of  trampled  right 

Brought  toiling  men  together ; 
Where  the  free  burghers  from  the  wall 

Defied  the  mail-clad  master, 
Than  yours,  at  Freedom's  trumpet-call, 

No  craftsmen  rallied  faster. 

Let  foplings  sneer,  let  fools  deride  — 

Ye  heed  no  idle  scorner ; 
Free  hands  and  hearts  are  still  your  pride, 

And  duty  done,  your  honor. 


316  SONGS   OF  LAB  OK. 

Ye  dare  to  trust,  for  honest  fame, 

The  jury  Time  empanels, 
And  leave  to  truth  each  noble  name 

Which  glorifies  your  annals. 

Thy  songs,  Hans  Sachs,  are  living  yet, 

In  strong  and  hearty  German  ; 
And  Bloomfield's  lay,  and  Gifford's  wit, 

And  patriot  fame  of  Sherman  ; 
Still  from  his  book,  a  mystic  seer, 

The  soul  of  Behmen  teaches, 
And  England's  priestcraft  shakes  to  hear 

Of  Fox's  leathern  breeches. 


The  foot  is  yours  ;  where'er  it  falls, 

It  treads  your  well-wrought  leather, 
On  earthern  floor,  in  marble  halls, 

On  carpet,  or  on  heather. 
Still  there  the  sweetest  charm  is  found 

Of  matron  grace  or  vestal's, 
As  Hebe's  foot  bore  nectar  round 

Among  the  old  celestials ! 

Rap!  rap!  —  your  stout  and  bluff  brogan, 

With  footsteps  slow  and  weary, 
May  wander  where  the  sky's  blue  span 

Shuts  down  upon  the  prairie. 
On  Beauty's  foot,  your  slippers  glance, 

By  Saratoga's  fountains, 
Or  twinkle  down  the  summer  dance 

Beneath  the  Crystal  Mountains! 


THE  DROVE  R*. 

The  red  brick  to  the  mason's  hand, 

The  brown  earth  to  the  tiller's, 
The  shoe  in  yours  shall  wealth  command, 

Like  fairy  Cinderella's! 
As  they  who  shunned  the  household  maid 

Beheld  the  crown  upon  her, 
So  all  shall  see  your  toil  repaid 

With  hearth  and  home  and  honor. 


Then  let  the  toast  be  freely  quaffed, 

In  water  cool  and  brimming  — 
"  All  honor  to  the  good  old  Craft, 

Its  merry  men  and  women!" 
Call  out  again  your  long  array, 

In  the  old  time's  pleasant  manner; 
Once  more,  on  gay  St.  Crispin's  day, 

Fling  out  his  blazoned  banner! 

1846. 


THE  DROVERS. 

THROUGH  heat  and  cold,  and  shower  and  sun 

Still  onward  cheerly  driving! 
There's  life  alone  in  duty  done, 

And  rest  alone  in  striving. 
But  see!  the  day  is  closing  cool, 

The  woods  are  dim  before  us  ; 
The  white  fog  of  the  way-side  pool 

Is  creeping  slowly  o'er  us. 


318  SONGS    OF  LABOR. 

The  night  is  falling,  comrades  mine, 

Our  foot-sore  beasts  are  weary, 
And  through  yon  elms  the  tavern  sign 

Looks  out  upon  us  cheery. 
The  landlord  beckons  from  his  door, 

His  beechen  fire  is  glowing  ; 
These  ample  barns,  with  feed  in  store, 

Are  filled  to  overflowing. 

From  many  a  valley  frowned  across 

By  brows  of  rugged  mountains  ; 
From  hill-sides  where,  through  spongy  moss, 

Gush  out  the  river  fountains  ; 
From  quiet  farm-fields,  green  and  low, 

And  bright  with  blooming  clover ; 
From  vales  of  corn'  the  wandering  crow 

No  richer  hovers  over ; 

Day  after  day  our  way  has  been, 

O'er  many  a  hill  and  hollow ; 
By  lake  and  stream,  by  wood  and  glen, 

Our  stately  drove  we  follow. 
Through  dust-clouds  rising  thick  and  dun, 

As  smoke  of  battle  o'er  us, 
Their  white  horns  glisten  in  the  sun, 

Like  plumes  and  crests  before  us. 

We  see  them  slowly  climb  the  hill, 

As  slow  behind  it  sinking ; 
Or,  thronging  close,  from  road-side  rill. 

Or  sunny  lakelet,  drinking. 


THE   DROl'I-.RS.  319 

Now  crowding  in  the  narrow  road, 

In  thick  and  struggling  masses, 
They  glare  upon  the  teamster's  load, 

Or  rattling  coach  that  passes. 

Anon,  with  toss  of  horn  and  tail, 

And  paw  of  hoof,  and  bellow, 
They  leap  some  farmer's  broken  pale, 

O'er  meadow-close  or  fallow. 
Forth  comes  the  startled  good-man  ;  forth 

Wife,  children,  house-dog,  sally, 
Till  once  more  on  their  drsty  path 

The  bailed  truants  rally. 

We  drive  no  starvelings,  scraggy  grown, 

Loose-legged,  and  ribbed  and  bony, 
Like  those  who  grind  their  noses  down 

On  pastures  bare  and  stony  — 
Lank  oxen,  rough  as  Indian  dogs, 

And  cows  too  lean  for  shadows, 
Disputing  feebly  with  the  frogs 

The  crop  of  saw-grass  meadows ! 

In  our  good  drove,  so  sleek  and  fair, 

No  bones  of  leanness  rattle  ; 
No  tottering  hide-bound  ghosts  are  there, 

Or  Pharaoh's  evil  cattle. 
Each  stately  beeve  bespeaks  the  hand 

That  fed  him  unrepining ; 
The  fatness  of  a  goodly  land 

In  each  dun  hide  is  shining. 


320  SONGS    OF  LAB  OK. 

We've  sought  them  where,  in  warmest  nooks,, 

The  freshest  feed  is  growing, 
By  sweetest  springs  and  clearest  brooks 

Through  honeysuckle  flowing ; 
Wherever  hill-sides,  sloping  south, 

Are  bright  with  early  grasses, 
Or,  tracking  green  the  lowland's  drouth,, 

The  mountain  streamlet  passes. 

But  now  the  day  is  closing  cool, 

The  woods  are  dim  before  us, 
The  white  fog  of  the  way-side  pool 

Is  creeping  slowly  o'er  us. 
The  cricket  to  the  frog's  bassoon 

His  shrillest  time  is  keeping ; 
The  sickle  of  yon  setting  moon 

The  meadow-mist  is  reaping. 

The  night  is  falling,  comrades  mine, 

Our  foot-sore  beasts  are  weary, 
And  through  yon  elms  the  tavern  sign 

Looks  out  upon  us  cheery. 
To-morrow,  eastward  with  our  charge 

We'll  go  to  meet  the  dawning, 
Ere  yet  the  pines  of  Kearsarge 

Have  seen  the  sun  of  morning. 

When  snow-flakes  o'er  the  frozen  earth, 

Instead  of  birds,  are  flitting ; 
When  children  throng  the  glowing  hearth, 

And  quiet  wives  are  knitting ; 


THE  FISHERMEN.  321 

While  in  the  fire-light  strong  and  clear 

Young  eyes  of  pleasure  glisten. 
To  tales  of  all  we  see  and  hear 

The  ears  of  home  shall  listen. 

By  many  a  Northern  lake  and  hill, 

From  many  a  mountain  pasture, 
Shall  Fancy  play  the  Drover  still. 

And  speed  the  long  night  faster. 
Then  let  us  on,  through  shower  and  sun? 

And  heat  and  cold,  be  driving ; 
There's  life  alone  in  duty  done, 

And  rest  alone  in  striving. 

1847- 


THE   FISHERMEN. 

HURRAH  !  the  seaward  breezes 

Sweep  down  the  bay  amain ; 
Heave  up,  my  lads,  the  anchor! 

Run  up  the  sail  again! 
Leave  to  the  lubber  landsmen 

The  rail-car  and  the  steed ; 
The  stars  of  heaven  shall  guide  us, 

The  breath  of  heaven  shall  speed. 

From  the  hill-top  looks  the  steeple, 
And  the  light-house  from  the  sand; 

And  the  scattered  pines  are  waving 
Their  farewell  from  the  land. 


322  SONGS   OF  LABOR. 

One  glance,  my  lads,  behind  us, 
For  the  homes  we  leave  one  sigh, 

Ere  we  take  the  change  and  chances 
Of  the  ocean  and  the  sky. 

Now  brothers,  for  the  icebergs 

Of  frozen  Labrador, 
Floating  spectral  in  the  moonshine, 

Along  the  low,  black  shore! 
Where  like  snow  the  gannet's  feathers 

Of  Brador's  rocks  are  shed, 
And  the  noisy  murr  are  flying, 

Like  black  scuds,  overhead ; 

Where  in  mist  the  rock  is  hiding, 

And  the  sharp  reef  lurks  below, 
And  the  white  squall  smites  in  summer, 

And  the  autumn  tempests  blow  ; 
Where,  through  gray  and  rolling  vapor, 

From  evening  unto  morn, 
A  thousand  boats  are  hailing, 

Horn  answering  unto  horn. 

Hurrah!  for  the  Red  Island, 

With  the  white  cross  on  its  crown! 
Hurrah!  for  Meccatina, 

And  its  mountains  bare  and  brown! 
Where  the  Caribou's  tall  antlers 

O'er  the  dwarf-wood  freely  toss, 
And  the  footstep  of  the  Mickmack 

Has  no  sound  upon  the  moss. 


THE    l-ISHERMEN.  323 

There  we'll  drop  our  lines,  and  gather 

Old  Ocean's  treasures  in, 
Where'er  the  mottled  mackerel 

Turns  up  a  steel-dark  fin. 
The  sea's  our  field  of  harvest, 

Its  scaly  tribes  our  grain  ; 
We'll  reap  the  teeming  waters 

As  at  home  they  reap  the  plain' 

Our  wet  hands  spread  the  carpet, 

And  light  the  hearth  of  home  ; 
From  our  fish,  as  in  the  old  time, 

The  silver  coin  shall  come. 
As  the  demon  fled  the  chamber 

Where  the  fish  of  Tobit  lay, 
So  ours  from  all  our  dwellings 

Shall  frighten  Want  away. 

Though  the  mist  upon  our  jackets 

In  the  bitter  air  congeals, 
And  our  lines  wind  stiff  and  slowly 

From  off  the  frozen  reels  ; 
Though  the  fog  be  dark  around  us, 

And  the  storm  blow  high  and  loud, 
We  will  whistle  down  the  wild  wind, 

And  laugh  beneath  the  cloud! 

In  the  darkness  as  in  daylight, 

On  the  water  as  on  land, 
God's  eye  is  looking  on  us, 

And  beneath  us  is  his  hand! 


324 


SOJVGS   OF  LABOR. 

Death  will  find  us  soon  or  later, 
On  the  deck  or  in  the  cot ; 

And  we  cannot  meet  him  better 
Than  in  working  out  our  lot. 

Hurrah !  —  hurrah !  —  the  west  wind 

Comes  freshening  down  the  bay, 
The  rising  sails  are  filling  — 

Give  way,  my  lads,  give  way ! 
Leave  the  coward  landsman  clinging 

To  the  dull  earth,  like  a  weed  — 
The  stars  of  heaven  shall  guide  us, 

The  breath  of  heaven  shall  speed! 


1845- 


THE    HUSKERS. 

IT  was  late  in  mild  October,  and  the  long  autumnal 
rain 

Had  left  the  summer  harvest-fields  all  green  with 
grass  again ; 

The  first  sharp  frosts  had  fallen,  leaving  all  the 
woodlands  gay 

With  the  hues  of  summer's  rainbow,  or  the  meadow- 
flowers  of  May. 

Through  a  thin,  dry    mist,  that  morning,    the   sun 

rose  broad  and  red, 
At  first  a  rayless  disc  of  fire,  he  brightened  as  he 

sped; 


THE  HUSKERS.  325 

Yet,  even  his  noontide  glory  fell  chastened  and 
subdued, 

On  the  corn-fields  and  the  orchards,  and  softly  pict 
ured  wood. 

And  all   that  quiet  afternoon,  slow  sloping  to  the 

night, 
He  wove  with  golden  shuttle  the  haze  with  yellow 

light ; 
Slanting  through  the  painted   beeches,  he  glorified 

the  hill ; 
And,   beneath   it,  pond   and   meadow   lay   brighter, 

greener  still. 

,  J 

And    shouting    boys    in   woodland    haunts    caught 

glimpses  of  that  sky,     . 
Flecked   by  the  many -tinted   leaves,   and   laughed, 

they  knew  not  why  ; 
And  school-girls,  gay  with  aster-flowers,  beside  the 

meadow  brooks, 
Mingled  the  glow  of  autumn  with    the  sunshine  of 

sweet  looks. 

From   spire   and   barn,  looked  westerly  the   patient 

weather-cocks ; 
But  even  the  birches  on  the  hill  stood  motionless  as 

rocks. 
No  sound  was  in  the  woodlands,  save  the  squirrel's 

dropping  shell, 
And    the    yellow   leaves    among    the    boughs,   low 

rustling  as  they  fell. 


326  SONGS   OF  LABOR. 

The  summer  grains  were  harvested;  the  stubble- 
fields  lay  dry, 

Where  June  winds  rolled,  in  light  and  shade,  the 
pale-green  waves  of  rye  ; 

But  still,  on  gentle  hill-slopes,  in  valleys  fringed 
with  wood, 

Ungathered,  bleaching  in  the  sun,  the  heavy  corn 
crop  stood. 

Bent    low,    by   autumn's    wind     and    rain,    through 

husks  that,  dry  and  sere, 
Unfolded  from  their  ripened  charge,  shone  out  the 

yellow  ear ; 
Beneath,  the  turnip  lay  concealed,  in  many  a  verdant 

fold, 
And   glistened  in  the  slanting   light  the    pumpkin's 

sphere  of  gold. 

There  wrought  the  busy  harvesters ;  and  many  a 
creaking  wain 

Bore  slowly  to  the  long  barn-floor  its  load  of  husk 
and  grain  ; 

Till  broad  and  red,  as  when  he  rose,  the  sun  sank 
down,  at  last, 

And  like  a  merry  guest's  farewell,  the  day  in  bright 
ness  passed. 

And  lo !  as  through  the  western  pines,  on  meadow, 

stream  and  pond, 
Flamed    the   red    radiance   of    a   sky,   set   all   afire 

beyond, 


THE  HUSKEKS.  $2? 

Slowly  o'er   the    Eastern   sea-blurts    a    milder   glory 

shone. 
And  the  sunset  and  the  moonrise  were  mingled  into 

one! 

As   thus   into   the   quiet   night   the   twilight   lapsed 

away, 
And   deeper  in  the  brightening   moon   the  tranquil 

shadows  lay ; 
From    many  a   brown    old    farm-house,  and    hamlet 

without  name, 
Their  milking  and  their  home-tasks  done,  the  merry 

huskers  came. 

Swung  o'er  the   heaped-up-harvest,  from   pitchforks 

in  the  mow, 
Shone   dimly    clown    the    lanterns    on    the   pleasant 

scene  below ; 
The  growing  pile  of  husks  behind,  the  golden  ears 

before, 
And    laughing   eyes   and    busy   hands    and    brown 

cheeks  glimmering  o'er. 

Half  hidden   in  a  quiet   nook,  serene  of  look   and 

heart. 
Talking  their   old    times    over,   the    old    men    sat 

apart ; 
While,  up  and  down  the  unhusked  pile,  or  nestling 

in  its  shade, 
At  hide-and-seek,  with  laugh  and  shout,  the  happy 

children  played. 


328  SONGS   OF  LAB  OK. 

Urged  by  the  good  host's  daughter,  a  maiden  young 

and  fair, 
Lifting  to  light  her  sweet  blue  eyes  and  pride  of  soft 

brown  hair, 
The  master  of  the  village  school,  sleek  of  hair  and 

smooth  of  tongue, 
To  the  quaint  tune  of  some  old  psalm,  a  husking- 

ballad  sung. 
1847. 

THE  CORN  SONG. 

HEAP  high  the  farmer's  wintry  hoard! 

Heap  high  the  golden  corn ! 
No  richer  gift  has  Autumn  poured 

From  out  her  lavish  horn! 

Let  other  lands,  exulting,  glean 

The  apple  from  the  pine, 
The  orange  from  its  glossy  green, 

The  cluster  from  the  vine  ; 

0 

We  better  love  the  hardy  gift 

Our  rugged  vales  bestow, 
To  cheer  us  when  the  storm  shall  drift 

Our  harvest  fields  with  snow. 

Through  vales  of  grass  and  meads  of  flowers, 

Our  ploughs  their  furrows  made, 
While  on  the  hills  the  sun  and  showers 

Of  changeful  April  played. 


THI-:  in'SKERS.  329 

We  dropped  the  seed  o'er  hill  and  plain, 

Beneath  the  sun  of  May, 
And  frightened  from  our  sprouting  grain 

The  robber  crows  away. 


All  through  the  long,  bright  days  of  June, 
Its  leaves  grew  green  and  fair, 

And  waved  in  hot  midsummer's  noon 
Its  soft  and  yellow  hair. 


And  now,  with  Autumn's  moonlit  eves, 

Its  harvest  time  has  come, 
We  pluck  away  the  frosted  leaves, 

And  bear  the  treasure  home. 


There,  richer  than  the  fabled  gift 

Apollo  showered  of  old, 
Fair  hands  the  broken  grain  shall  sift, 

And  knead  its  meal  of  gold. 


Let  vapid  idlers  loll  in  silk. 
Around  their  costly  board  ; 

Give  us  the  bowl  of  samp  and  milk, 
By  homespun  beauty  poured  ! 


Where'er  the  wide  old  kitchen  hearth 

Sends  up  its  smoky  curls, 
Who  will  not  thank  the  kindly  earth, 

And  bless  our  farmer  girls! 


33O  SONGS   OF  LABOR. 

Then  shame  on  all  the  proud  and  vain, 
Whose  folly  laughs  to  scorn 

The  blessing  of  our  hardy  grain, 
Our  wealth  of  golden  corn! 

Let  earth  withhold  her  goodly  root, 
Let  mildew  blight  the  rye, 

Give  to  the  worm  the  orchard's  fruit? 
The  wheat-field  to  the  fly  : 

But  let  the  good  old  crop  adorn 
The  hills  our  fathers  trod  ; 

Still  let  us,  for  his  golden  corn, 
Send  up  our  thanks  to  God! 

1847. 


THE   LUMBERMEN. 

WILDLY  round  our  woodland  quarters, 

Sad-voiced  Autumn  grieves  ; 
Thickly  down  these  swelling  waters 

Float  his  fallen  leaves. 
Through  the  tall  and  naked  timber, 

Column-like  and  old, 
Gleam  the  sunsets  of  November, 

From  their  skies  of  gold. 

O'er  us,  to  the  southland  heading, 
Screams  the  gray  wild-goose  ; 

On  the  night-frost  sounds  the  treading 
Of  the  brindled  moose. 


THE  LUMBERMEN.  331 

Noiseless  creeping,  while  we're  sleeping, 

Frost  his  task-work  pi  it-  : 
Soon,  his  icy  bridges  heaping, 

Shall  our  log-piles  rise. 

When,  with  sounds  of  smothered  thunder, 

On  some  night  of  rain, 
Lake  and  river  break  asunder 

Winter's  weakened  chain, 
Down  the  wild  March  flood  shall  bear  them 

To  the  saw-mill's  wheel. 
Or  where  Steam,  the  slave,  shall  tear  them 

With  his  teeth  of  steel. 

Be  it  starlight,  be  it  moonlight, 

In  these  vales  below, 
When  the  earliest  beams  of  sunlight 

Streak  the  mountain's  snow. 
Crisps  the  hoar-frost,  keen  and  early, 

To  our  hurrying  feet, 
And  the  forest  echoes  clearly 

All  our  blows  repeat. 

Where  the  crystal  Ambijejis 

Stretches  broad  and  clear, 
And  Millnoket's  pine-black  ridges 

Hide  the  browsing  deer : 
Where,  through  lakes  and  \\ide  morasses, 

Or  through  rocky  walls. 
Swift  and  strong,  Penobscot  passes 

White  with  foamy  falls  ; 


332  SONGS  OF  LABOR. 

Where,  through  clouds,  are  glimpses  given 

Of  Katahdin's  sides,  — 
Rock  and  forest  piled  to  heaven, 

Torn  and  ploughed  by  slides! 
Far  below,  the  Indian  trapping, 

In  the  sunshine  warm  ; 
Far  above,  the  snow-cloud  wrapping 

Half  the  peak  in  storm! 

Where  are  mossy  carpets  better 

Than  the  Persian  weaves, 
And  than  Eastern  perfumes  sweeter 

Seem  the  fading  leaves  ; 
And  a  music  wild  and  solemn, 

From  the  pine-tree's  height, 
Rolls  its  vast  and  sea-like  volume 

On  the  wind  of  night ; 

Make  we  here  our  camp  of  winter ; 

And,  through  sleet  and  snow, 
Pitchy  knot  and  beechen  splinter 

On  our  hearth  shall  glow. 
Here,  with  mirth  to  lighten  duty, 

We  shall  lack  alone 
Woman's  smile  and  girlhood's  beauty, 

Childhood's  lisping  tone. 

But  their  hearth  is  brighter  burning 

For  our  toil  to-day  ; 
And  the  welcome  of  returning 

Shall  our  loss  repay, 


Till-.    I.  I'M  H  MM  EN.  333 

When,  like  seamen  from  the  waters, 

From  the  woods  we  come, 
Greeting  sisters,  wives,  and  daughters, 

Angels  of  our  home! 

Not  for  us  the  measured  ringing 

From  the  village  spire, 
Not  for  us  the  Sabbath  singing 

Of  the  sweet-voiced  choir  : 
Ours  the  old,  majestic  temple, 

Where  God\s  brightness  shines 
Down  the  dome  so  grand  and  ample, 

Propped  by  lofty  pines! 

Through  each  branch-enwoven  skylight, 

Speaks  He  in  the  breeze, 
As  of  old  beneath  the  twilight 

Of  lost  Eden's  trees! 
For  his  ear,  the  inward  feeling 

Needs  no  outward  tongue  ; 
He  can  see  the  spirit  kneeling 

While  the  axe  is  swung. 

Heeding  truth  alone,  and  turning 

From  the  false  and  dim, 
Lamp  of  toil  or  altar  burning 

Are  alike  to  Him. 
Strike,  then,  comrades!  —  Trade  is  waiting 

On  our  rugged  toil ; 
Far  ships  waiting  for  the  freighting 

Of  our  woodland  spoil ! 


334  SONGS    OF  LABOR. 

Ships,  whose  traffic  links  these  highlands^ 

Bleak  and  cold,  of  ours, 
With  the  citron-planted  islands 

Of  a  clime  of  flowers  ; 
To  our  frosts  the  tribute  bringing 

Of  eternal  heats ; 
In  our  lap  of  winter  flinging 

Tropic  fruits  and  sweets. 

Cheerly,  on  the  axe  of  labor, 

Let  the  sunbeams  dance, 
Better  than  the  flash  of  sabre 

Or  the  gleam  of  lance ! 
Strike !  —  With  every  blow  is  given 

Freer  sun  and  sky, 
And  the  long-hid  earth  to  heaven 

Looks,  with  wondering  eye! 

Loud  behind  us  grow  the  murmurs 

Of  the  age  to  come  ; 
Clang  of  smiths,  and  tread  of  farmers, 

Bearing  harvest-home! 
Here  her  virgin  lap  with  treasures 

Shall  the  green  earth  fill ; 
Waving  wheat  and  golden  maize-ears 

Crown  each  beechen  hill. 

Keep  who  will  the  city's  alleys, 
Take  the  smooth-shorn  plain,  — 

Give  to  us  the  cedar  valleys, 
Rocks  and  hills  of  Maine ! 


THE   LUMBERMEN.  335 

In  our  North-land,  wild  and  woody, 

Let  us  still  have  part ; 
Rugged  nurse  and  mother  sturdy, 

Hold  us  to  thy  heart! 

O!  our  free  hearts  beat  the  warmer 

For  thy  breath  of  snow  ; 
And  our  tread  is  all  the  firmer 

For  thy  rocks  below. 
Freedom,  hand  in  hand  with  labor, 

Walketh  strong  and  brave  ; 
On  the  forehead  of  his  neighbor 

No  man  writeth  Slave! 

Lo,  the  day  breaks!  old  Katahdin's 

Pine-trees  show  its  fires. 
While  from  these  dim  forest  gardens 

Rise  their  blackened  spires. 
Up,  my  comrades!  up  and  doing! 

Manhood's  rugged  play 
Still  renewing,  bravely  hewing 

Through  the  world  our  way! 

1845. 


YA  04456 


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